Kalpa Imperial (27 page)

“If one of us could see the eye, maybe the emperor’s daughter would be cured,” said The Cat.

“Will that snotnose shut up and let grown people talk?” said Bolbaumis.

“It’s late,” said old Z’Ydagg, “time to rest.”

“But that damned woman wants her son on the Golden Throne,” Nayidemoub grumbled, “so she keeps the emperor’s daughter captive and says she’s sick. She’s going to kill her and say she died of her illness. And then the boy will succeed to the throne, just as she wants. I know what I’m talking about.”

“And why shouldn’t he govern well? Let’s give him a chance,” said one of the merchants.

“That she-hyena’s son?” said Nayidemoub. “Forget it!”

“To bed,” said the twentier. “There’s been too much talking today.”

“Are you going to need more blankets?” the woman who called herself a silk dealer asked The Cat.

The desert went on and on and seemed as if it would never end. But the people knew that they’d gone better than halfway, and the heat and thirst of the day, the cold of night, kept getting easier to bear. So at night they sang more cheerfully, coming in on the choruses with The Cat and clapping to the rhythm of the soldier’s serel. And so the old twentier smiled, which he didn’t do very often, when the boy said he was tired of singing and wanted to hear another story about when the world was new, before the Empire existed.

“Tomorrow,” said Z’Ydagg, “we’ll have stories tomorrow. Not now. I’m tired too.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, boy,” a merchant said. “The Empire has always existed. It is, it was, it will be. They teach us that in school even before we learn to read.”

“Who knows,” said Mistress Assyi’Duzmaül.

“How can anyone even think of the Empire not existing?” a man said suspiciously, shaking his head.

“The lady’s right,” said the old man. “Who knows? There are legends, there are stories, and maybe not all of them were made up by blind beggar bards.”

“Honest?” The Cat said. “Honest, daddy? Will you tell us one?”

“Tomorrow, I said,” Z’Ydagg replied.

But the next day everybody was talking about reaching the towns on the far side of the desert, though in fact their journey’s end was not yet in sight. Good Pfalbuss had a grandson expecting him in Oadast, at one of his places of business.

“Just like his mother,” Pfalbuss said smiling, “my eldest daughter who died young, poor child. Just like her, my friend, the same eyes, same laugh, same business sense, same gift for seizing an opportunity.”

“Your daughter was in the business?”

“Of course. She was my right hand for years.”

“A woman in business? Hmm.”

“Why not?” asked Mistress Assyi’Duzmaül.

“Well, of course, I didn’t mean . . .”

“I believe,” said the silk dealer, “that a woman is perfectly capable of any activity—business, politics, sciences, applied arts.”

“Of course, of course.”

“You’ve offended the lady, Mr. Merchant,” The Cat said.

“I hope not, I certainly had no such intention.”

“What would you say to a woman on the throne?” asked the silk dealer.

“Oh, well, now, that depends . . .”

“Depends on what? Have you forgotten the Great Empress? Or Esseriantha? Or Nninivia? Or the Blessed Lullisbizoa? Or Djarandé, who saved the Empire not once but twice?”

“We’re camping here,” said the old twentier.

“I didn’t for a moment suggest that a woman couldn’t or shouldn’t occupy the Golden Throne,” Pfalbuss said finally, “all I say is, some women yes, some women no. That’s what I say.”

“For example?”

“For example, that adder, the sister of our emperor who just died, that woman, no—definitely not. But Louwantes IV’s daughter, yes.”

Mistress Assyi’Duzmaül smiled. “I wouldn’t say there’s much chance of that girl reaching the throne, would you?”

“Oh, lady,” said The Cat, “don’t get talking politics now, huh? Look, I’m helping you with the load.”

“No, no, don’t do that, that’s what the servants are for, those things are heavy.”

She looks after him as if he was made of sugar candy, the old man thought. He said, “Come on, come on, let’s have the camp ready before nightfall, get on with it. Get it all stowed, and I’ll tell you a story.”

What did I say that for? he asked himself while The Cat cheered and jumped up and down and everybody got to work with the loads, the pack animals, and the carts. Why am I going to tell them old stories nobody tells any more, not even the storytellers? Am I getting paid for this? No, I’m paid to lead a caravan safely, without going astray or getting delayed or losing anything, from the capital to Oadassim Province, that’s what they pay me for, and pay me well because I know my job and the years have given me, maybe not wisdom, but something close. So why should I go digging up old fables about fabulous beings who were born and loved and fought and died, if they ever existed, before the Empire came to be, no, it’s quite unnecessary. And therefore I won’t tell them a thing, not a thing, not a word will escape my lips.

“Here it is, here it is!” shouted The Cat, dancing around him.

“Quiet, quiet down, boy,” the old man said. “May I inquire where what is?”

“The camp! All ready, in order, in place!”

“Well, let’s see about that, let’s see, aha, hmm,” said the twentier, and went about examining things, pulling at the cords that fastened the packs, testing the crosspieces that held up the corral for the pack animals, twanging straps with a finger and giving little kicks to wooden stakes to make sure they were firmly planted. He went round to the dugouts where the fires were already lighted, checked the blankets and sleeping bags, pushed the wagons to make them sway so he could hear if they creaked or squeaked, passed every person and looked at what each one was doing. At last he came back to The Cat.

“Good,” he said. “Very good. I imagine you took part in this magnificently organized enterprise.”

“Of course I did,” the boy said. “Everybody helped, let’s be fair. But I did most of it.”

“I don’t believe a word you say, you lazy good-for-nothing, not one word, you hear me?”

“Me? Lazy? Me? But daddy, I work all the time, day and night.”

“Oh yes,” the old man said, “yes, of course you do.”

“But seriously, daddy. I say magic words to the animals so they won’t balk or shy or kick, I keep company with Mistress Assyi’Duzmaül so she doesn’t miss her seven kids, I grease axles, I tighten the girths when there isn’t water and loosen them when there is, I listen to the merchants when they complain about how little money they make, I measure the feed, I give advice, I guess things.”

“What things?” the old man demanded abruptly.

“Oh, things.” The boy made a vague gesture as if brushing the subject aside. “And now, as part of my duties, since I have the best memory of anybody in the caravan, now I remind you that you promised to tell a story.”

“The animals have to be fed,” the twentier said, “and we need to eat too if we want to get on. After that, we’ll see.”

When the animals had been fed, the people sat around the fire and Nonne served meat and rice in broth in their bowls, and The Cat made coffee and asked softly, “Will you tell us a story, daddy?”

“An old story,” said Z’Ydagg, “very old, from when the world was young and nobody suspected that it would someday contain the greatest and most powerful empire known to man. I’ll tell you the story of Yeimsbón, who was the younger brother of Yeimsdín, who married that woman who was so beautiful that they said her face had launched a thousand ships into the air, you remember? Well, then, Yeimsbón got married too, when he was old enough, to a woman who was also very beautiful but bossy and ambitious, named Magareta’Acher, and they lived in the city of Erinn, where after a short time Yeimsbón was made king, on account of his valor and goodness. They had a son called Yanpolsar and a daughter called Bernadetdevlin. The two children grew up adoring their father, who was gentle and loving to them, and learned to hate their mother, who was hard and harsh and punished them often, sending the boy to work in the fields and the girl to peel potatoes in the palace kitchen. So it went on till one day Yeimsbón received a request for help from his brother Yeimsdín, who was setting off to make war on a sinister person who had been a hatmaker and now called himself Prince Chiklgruber and was trying to conquer the whole world. So Yeimsbón rode away at the head of his army, not without tender farewells to his children and his sharp-tongued wife, and leaving his cousin Yeimscañi to watch over his home, his palace, and his city. The good, brave, ingenuous king was gone for many years, and when he and the kings he was allied with had at last defeated Prince Chiklgruber, he returned to find his children grown but unhappy, his people oppressed, and his wife in the arms of the man he had trusted. The king, who had come back home full of hopes and illusions, thought to kill the adulterers; but he had brought back from the war so much sadness and weariness that he persuaded himself that something might yet be saved, and having resolved on nothing, retired to his apartment to meditate. There, creeping silently, his evil wife followed him, with Yeimscañi, the traitor. And as the king lay in his bath with his eyes closed thinking of what must be done, there they cut his throat and left him lying in the water red with his blood. But the queen had forgotten about her children, had forgotten them because she never thought about them except to make sure they were far from the palace, busy with menial work. Yanpolsar and Bernadetdevlin, who hoped their father would punish those who had abused his trust, learned of his death with pain and horror. They wept for him, of course, wept long and bitterly. But then they dried their tears and swore to avenge their father. And one night they entered the royal bedroom and pitilessly slew their mother and their uncle. Then they set free the people of Erinn from the cruel yoke that had been laid upon them when the good king left, and reigned together in peace, protected and counselled by the Erinnies, the good spirits of the city of Erinn. Yanpolsar married Emabovarí and his sister married Yonlenon, an adventurer from far away who claimed descent from the fabled ringostars who had deceived the wily Clargueibl. From the two marriages came many children who peopled the wide world, and the brother and sister slowly forgot the tragedy that had darkened their lives. Except that Yanpolsar ordered a scribe to write down the facts and keep the records, which were found many centuries later. People read this writing and told it to others, and those others told it to others, and so down through the years, and it is thus that I came to know this sad tale.”

“It’s not all that sad, daddy, don’t exaggerate,” said The Cat. “It’s sad-happy. Haven’t you got a sad-sad story? Or a happy-happy one?”

“It’s no good, kids aren’t satisfied with anything. You give them this, they want that, you give them that, they want this, and if you give them this and that, then they manage to want the other!” said the elderly Pfalbuss.

“Things aren’t either sad or happy, Cat,” Bolbaumis said. “They’re a bit of both. The only happy-happy thing is the chink of coins, and so much the happier if they’re gold.”

“And why are we men and women here in the world,” said Mistress Assyi’Duzmaül, “if not to try to turn sad things into happy ones?”

“Ah,” said the old twentier, “a sound observation, I do believe.”

“More coffee, boy, get on with it, get moving, people need more coffee,” said Nonne.

The next day The Cat came to old Z’Ydagg and asked him what other stories he knew.

“Aha,” said the old man, “now we can’t even wait till night-time to ask for stories, eh?”

“I’m not asking you for a story, daddy, I’m asking about what others you know.”

“Storytellers know many stories. All you have to do is find one in a street or a square or a tent and sit down and listen to what they tell.”

“No, you don’t understand,” The Cat said. “I want stories about what happened long long ago, when there were no emperors or Golden Throne or regents or heiresses.”

“And what does an alley cat know about emperors and their heirs?”

It was the one time the old man saw the boy hesitate. Not for long; but The Cat was silent, as if he didn’t know what to say.

“Nothing, of course,” he said at last. “Just what everybody knows, that’s all.”

And then he turned round and went back to stay close to the woman who dealt in silks.

Now I know, the old twentier thought, now I know what’s going on. And I don’t like it. Oh, how I wish we’d just get to Oadassim quickly, how I wish everybody would just go off their own way and Bolbaumis would pay me and I could go have a rest till some other caravan hunts me up to lead them back across the desert to the capital. Oh, how I wish the good Emperor Louwantes hadn’t died, how I wish it . . .

The old man told no more stories of the incredible days when the Empire did not exist. That night The Cat sang and sang, and when he stopped he said, “Now for an old story, eh, daddy?”

Z’Ydagg answered crossly, “No stories. We need to save our strength for the arrival.”

The desert was beginning to change. The color of the earth, for example, now wasn’t so blinding in the daylight nor so bright at night; it was taking on a greyish hue, day and night; and the fine pale dust that covered it changed and no longer rose up at the least breath of wind. There was no need to store water because the wells came close one after the other. The day came when they saw plants, green plants struggling up among the stones. And the next day they were not awakened by the twentier’s voice, nor by the light, but by the singing of birds.