The Malacia Tapestry by Brian W Aldiss

  Seeing me, the old man told the others to continue with the work while he took me to one side.

  'Am I to inspect the finished slides at last?'

  'Pray do not persist about that, what might be a sore point with some.'

  'What, then?'

  'Are you feeling today courageous, Perian?'

  'Like the general, I am always brave.'

  'Good. Though bravery isn't a matter always of cutting some figures, you understand, or of playing even a role. It is something what you have to be. There are dangers all about, all the time. We may finish in the Toi with our throats yet cut, even if the Ottoman don't slaughter us.'

  'You asked me a question and I answered straight. Why then a straight sermon?'

  'Not a sermon, think nothing about it. Thinking is dangerous in Malacia. In three days' time there will come the Feast of the Buglewing — then the populace will cease to think and become drunken. But the people what hold power in Malacia, they never cease like machines to think, day or night, feast or fast.'

  'Who was the sinister man in the gallery last night, with the black frock coat?'

  He directed an upwards gaze at me which filtered through his straggling eyebrows. 'Better for you not to know. Keep him off from your mind.'

  'I know he is of the Supreme Council. I cared little for the look of him. Is he part of the reason why you will not show us the mercurization?'

  'Better you should not know. Let's speak of other things.' He cleared his throat. 'Listen and take not offence, what I don't intend. The Zlatorogs are mine friends. I know a thousand things from them to your one, so have a care there. Do not fool with Letitia, or her uncle Joze and I will see you regret.'

  'Fool with her? What do you mean, fool with her? Is feeding her sister and trying to order a shirt from her improper? Or any business of yours? Or her uncle's? Because I do your wretched play for you, it does not mean you order my life for me.'

  'Lives are for ordering. I tell you I know a thousand things from the Zlatorogs to your one. I have spoke on that subject and that is all what I will say.'

  'You've already said too much.'

  He nodded and continued, 'The other message what I have for you is of more high import. It comes from my mighty and rich master. Andrus Hoytola requires for you to present yourself at him to his mansion in the siesta hour. It is there, and not here before my zahnoscope, that some tax may be put on your courage.'

  'If he wants me, I shall be there. Have you been telling tales to him?'

  His manner changed, becoming confidential, as it had on the occasion when he first showed me the zahnoscope.

  'Listen, I was young once, before I was kicked out of Tolkhorm for my revolutionary views. I know better than to tell tales in that quarter, rest assured. I take care how I tread in Malacia.'

  'That black Council coat last evening convinced me there were serious things loose in the world, never fear. What did that man want in Hoytola's gallery?'

  In a hurried voice, he said, 'This is not your concern, I have said. That man is the Devil. All I say is, having the Turks at our back door has improved the standing of my master on more than one count, what the Turks alarm the Council. So you get a summons. A little action is wanted.

  'Inertia has been always the most chief of Malacia's weapons, whether in peace whether war. Inertia it is what has helped it somehow to survive throughout two thousand millennia from history.'

  Bonihatch had arrived, rolling down his sleeves and grinning. He butted in, in his impulsive way, to say, 'Yes, and the Council will rely on inertia again in this new Turkish crisis, if they can, Otto. The plague is on their side — not for the first time in history. Now that the Dog Star falls to bed with the sun, the plague gets in its stride again.'

  'There have been ten burials at St Braggart's this week so far, from the plague alone,' I said. 'But that isn't going to protect us from the Ottomans.'

  Bonihatch looked knowing. 'Ah, but think how much faster the visitation will move among the ranks of Suleiman's sons, camped with foul water out among the foothills.'

  'Is right,' agreed Otto. 'It's just an old women's tale that the Turk don't catch plague. They rot of it just like what we do. Besides, there's word what our enemy are not Ottomans proper, but the followers from the Bosnian king, Stefan Tvrtkos'. Their faith is Bogumilism. They'll fall easy to the plague.'

  Bonihatch dismissed this with a shake of his whiskers and said, 'Our stinking Council hope to sit and wait for death to do their work — in which time we could be invaded as strongly by the plague as by Tvrtko. A plea was sent to Igara and Saville and Vamonal for supporting armies, but in every case nothing has returned except excuses penned on richest vellum. So much for the rotten, corrupt system!'

  'Only Tuscady has sent some troops — the rest know how low is our exchequer,' I said.

  'We should let the Turk in, to lay waste Malacia — then we could start again clean,' said Bonihatch, savagely.

  'No, no, Bonny. That medicine is worse than what is the ailment. Turks must be defeated, then revolution comes from within.'

  'So what's to be done? I gather you have some ideas,' I said to him.

  Again the transfixing eye peered from under the cliff of brow.

  'Ideas enough wicked to please the Council. In particular, the young Duke Renardo supports them. You shall see, you shall see. Go to Hoytola this siesta time.' He altered his tone, and added, 'Change. That's what's needed in Malacia, change from within.' His voice sank still lower. 'Progress.'

  I knew students at the university who professed Progressivism because it suited the cut of their clothes; but the word sounded odd from this ageing Northerner, as it had from Letitia on the previous evening.

  'Well, Otto, let's get the sofa arranged and the zahnoscope set up.'

  When the zahnoscope had done its work for the day, Armida offered to drive me to her father. Bedalar and Guy were off to see Caylus train for the bull-fight, so Armida and I were alone together; proudly, she escorted me to one of the Chabrizzi stables, where her birthday present stood — a neat little post-chaise, with her mare, Betsy, complaisant between the shafts.

  At last I had admired and envied it enough and Armida took the reins. The carriage sprang along on its two fragile wheels. Its body was daintily turned, its panels shone like silk, its gilded woodwork glittered in the sun. I coveted it a great deal, desiring a masculine version for myself which I could drive at break-neck speed and astonish my friends. In this charming vehicle we bowled along, Armida and I.

  'What does your father want with me?'

  'That he must explain. The Turks have something to do with it.' I fell silent. I already knew what Otto had told me, that the Turkish force was commanded by Stefan Tvrtko the Bosnian; his name was being bandied about town. It was said that he was immense, swart, ferocious, that he was no better than a brigand who had thrown in his lot with the Ottomans for gain. It was said that his kingdom was no greater than a valley in the Balkan mountains, and that he had strangled his son Sebastian. What bearing such a villain had on a man of quality like Andrus Hoytola was a matter as yet for speculation.

  The Hoytola mansion stood beyond the Fragrant Quarter and the Avenue of the Armourers, in a secluded street not far from the Vamonal Canal. We drove past it and on to the racecourse, where we found the head of the Hoytola family in the stables, supervising the care of his Arabs. A boy took Betsy's head, and Armida and I walked over to him.

  The first piece of information Hoytola vouchsafed me was that he owned eighty horses, a good proportion of them Arab stallions, and most of them kept on the Hoytola country estate, Juracia.

  Andrus Hoytola wore a supercilious look, rather like one of his thoroughbreds. He was countrified this morning, in a mustard sporting-coat, breeches and gaiters, after the Northern manner. Breaking off a discussion regarding dressage with his grooms, he turned and addressed me formally.

  'The annual Feast of the Buglewing commences in three days. One has to prepare one's thoro
ughbreds in proper time, in order to make the best display.'

  I could think of nothing to say to that; nor did Hoytola appear to expect a reply. After a pause, he addressed me again.

  'One hears that you are progressing favourably in the Prince Mendicula play, de Chirolo. Excellent. One anticipates that it will be an interesting thing. Bengtsohn desired originally to apply the story to present-day low life, but that would never do, not even in his native Tolkhorm where manners are more barbarous than here. Set a few millennia ago, among people of proper standing, the Story acquires dignity, one judges.'

  His words had a dry quality, as if his mouth had developed a prejudice against saliva.

  'It would tell against my career to act in a story of low life,' I said. 'Although the silly innocent trust which Mendicula is represented as having in his wife Patricia might be more credible if it were told of a grocer rather than of a prince.'

  He put his thumbs in his waistcoat pocket. 'How droll you are! Nobody wants plays about grocers. The creatures would get above themselves, for one thing. No audience could conceivably care whether or not a grocer's wife was faithful to him.'

  The conversation appeared about to expire from difficulty. I glanced at Armida, but she was no help, for she was looking at the horses and rubbing their long noses.

  I said to her father, as easily as I could, 'I must admit that the Mendicula tragi-comedy strikes me as absurd. I'm sure Pozzi Kemperer would agree.'

  'In what way absurd?'

  'Perian thinks the story banal, Papa,' Armida said, flashing me a glance I could not interpret. 'He says it might as well have been written a million years ago.'

  'An interesting remark. Surely one's interest in the play is precisely that it might have been written a million years ago. Some things are eternal and must be eternally re-expressed. Those desperate straits of love, which Bengtsohn effectively conveys, appeal to us because they apply as much today as yesterday.'

  'I see that,' said I, feebly. 'But there's no moral in the play. The characters are stupid. Mendicula is a fool to be so trusting, the General a scoundrel to cheat his friend, Patricia not much better than a — hm — a loose woman, for all her royal blood, and Jemima is indecisive. I like to have at least one character with a resounding morality.'

  'One might judge that the morality lies in the whole rather than the parts,' said Hoytola.

  'It certainly doesn't lie in my part.'

  There was a small silence. Then Hoytola spoke again, more animatedly.

  'One is pleased to see that you are an independently minded young man. My daughter has suggested to one that you might be interested in undertaking a small adventure. One perceives that she has not misjudged.'

  The horses as well as the humans were observing me now. There was a strong smell of straw in the stables which made my nose twitch; my instinct told me that it would be undignified to sneeze before Armida's father.

  'What sort of small adventure have you in mind?'

  'A small adventure that would assist the Hoytolas, that would benefit Malacia, that would confer glory on you.'

  It sounded like a large small adventure. When he told me what it was, it sounded even larger. But the eyes of Armida were upon me, no less than the ruminative eyes of the Arabs. I said I would do what he asked, in as bold a voice as the occasion would allow.

  On the morn appointed for my small adventure, I was bustling about early, in imitation of the bustle in the streets. This was the first day of one of Malacia's most ancient festival weeks, the Feast of the Buglewing, consecrated both to immemorial victories and the mystical relationship between mankind and the creatures of the air.

  That relationship bore heavily on my mind; I was about to become a creature of the air: I kept recalling old Seemly Moleskin's warning about a black horse with silver shoes in the sky. I made my movements vigorous, to dispel gloom.

  Perching on the edge of my chair, I penned notes to my father and my sister, Katarina. Writing with great flourishes, I besought them to come from their separate retreats and witness my hour of glory, since it might be my last. I summoned a boy from below, paying him two denarios to deliver the messages expeditiously.

  I tried an air on my guitar, I attempted a poem and a farewell message to the world. Then I dashed down the street to Mandaro for his blessing.

  In Stary Most, elements of the grand parade were already assembling. The old grey and terracotta walls echoed to cries of men, boys and animals. Two shaggy mangonels were there, standing patiently like all elephants, as their faces were painted white and their long, curving tusks adorned. But the great barbaric sight was at the east end, under the tower of the Stary Dom, for there the civic herd of tyrant-greaves was marshalled. These furious beasts, the kings of all ancestral animals, were herded by their traditional herdsmen, satyrs, who had brought the carnivores in from their stockades on the Six Lagoons road.

  Oh, the sight of those primitive beings, half-man, half-goat, trotting round their enormous charges! I was impelled to press among the rabble of small boys and tradespeople who gathered to see the horned herdsmen manoeuvre the tyrant-greaves into line. There were four of the monsters, standing six metres high, their scales dappled yellow and green — or more yellow and grey, for these were old beasts. Their tails were secured in great loops over their backs with chains passed round their necks. Each beast was muzzled, with an iron cage over its predatory mouth. They were subdued enough — only satyrs could handle them — but their enormous bird-feet shuffled on the cobbles as if they longed to dash into the crowd and wreak disaster. Tyrants and devil-jaws can scarcely be cowed. They are never tamed. On holy days, they are essential to the ceremony.

  Mandaro gave me absolution. 'There is unity in all things, and duality,' he said. 'We live physically in a fine city; we also live in a forest of dark beliefs. This day, you are granted an occasion to rise above them both.'

  'Will you be watching me, father?'

  'Indeed. And now I'm going to watch the satyrs and tyrants. Like you, I find the barbarous sight moving. We admit them to the city on ceremonial occasions and no others. That is fitting.'

  No sooner had I returned to my room than a knock came at the door. There stood Armida, her whey-faced old chaperon behind her. I got the door between the two of them and poured kisses on Armida's lips, but she wriggled from me and withdrew.

  'A carriage is awaiting us outside, Perian. I see you're ready.' Her mood was rather severe — or certainly not plushy enough to greet a hero with.

  'I didn't notice any carriage down there.'

  'Not in the alleyway, in Stary Most.'

  'I'm feeling all the better for seeing you. I confess to a slight attack of nerves. Can we shut your woman outside and stoke each other's fires a little?'

  'We must hurry down to the Bucintoro.' All this said in a whisper.

  'I'm doing all this for your sake, Armida, as you know.'

  'Don't try to blackmail me.'

  I grasped her again, slipping a hand down the front of her dress until it encompassed the greater part of one elegant breast. 'Armida, how is it that out of all the young bucks in this thronging city, from its grooms to its princes, your illustrious father chose me for this singular and dangerous honour?'

  'You want a chance to rise in the world. If we are ever to marry — but there is also the question of your behaviour — then you must distinguish yourself, as we agreed.'

  'I see. You put my name to him. That was what I wanted to know.'

  She looked at me challengingly as we went through the door, where I bowed to Yolaria waiting on the landing.

  'I thought your seriousness should be put to the test, Perian,' Armida said. 'You know that in general I am forbidden to leave the house after dark, unless it is to go to some occasion, so that my evenings are spent playing the virginals or reading Plutarch and Martyn Tupper aloud to my younger sister. I have recently had an account of how you spend your evenings, hanging about low taverns and attempting unsuccessfully the se
duction of sewing-women…'

  She was leading the way down the winding stair, Yolaria behind her, then I. I cried out in rage, 'Who has been telling you these tales?'

  Without turning her head, Armida replied, 'Letitia Zlatorog. A reliable witness in the circumstances, one might think—'

  I flew into a rage, believing attack the only safe retreat.

  'That little creature! How jealous she must be to try and create mischief between us! All I did was attempt to purchase a shirt from her, as Bonihatch has done, and she cooks up a story of seduction! Why, she's so plain! Do I fall about in jealousy when you as Patricia loll in Bonihatch's sordid Mendiculan arms — though I have to watch you enjoying it for minutes at a stretch?'

  'I told you I hate him. I hate his whiskers. I hate his odour of oil and acids and custard. I think him plain. But you think Letitia so plain that you must slip your hand up her skirt and invite her to your bed, your bed which I thought sacred to us! How dare you?'

  All this passed over and through the bobbing head of Armida's chaperon, which increased my anger and sense of injustice.

  'So! Out of spite, you set up this challenge which would show me as a coward if I did not accept — whereupon your father could send me packing… You have a horrid scheming mind, Armida. You know that little seamstress means nothing to me. She simply intends to make mischief between us.'

  'It's you who have made the mischief.'

  In fine high tempers, we made our way to the carriage — not Armida's personal one but a little town coupe, with a seat behind for the driver. Biting our tongues — being unable to bite each other's — we permitted the doors to be closed and the horse to be shaken into action. Yolaria sat imperviously between us, presenting an old yellow cheek to us both.

  As we rolled out of the ancient square, we came into a concourse of traffic arriving both from the North Gate and from St Marco's. Our progress was slow, and slower for the silence between us. I was so angry that she should think I cared anything for Letitia.