The Malacia Tapestry. Brian Aldiss

did. We honoured you then.’

      ‘In bed you honoured me?’

      ‘Now I merely scorn you. So he will.’

      Far from being penitent, she is unmoved alike by his anger or his misery. She says that she and Gerald simply amused themselves. She has no intention of now relinquishing Gerald, when they are enjoying both the affair.

      ‘I tried to be all in all to you. Why are you so cold and hard now?’

      ‘You were never enough frivolous for my taste.’

      ‘But he … he … has someone else …’

      ‘He can have many women, so long as I am one of them …’

      ‘Patricia, my love, do not degrade yourself! He has debased you …’

      Something of that sort. The prince is gentle in his despair, but at that moment, General Gerald himself enters the room, very light and airy – as you do so well, de Chirolo.

      In rage, the prince charges him with vile deception in seducing the wife from a man he has called his closest friend, and in betraying totally the trust laid upon him. Gerald uneasily laughs. He adopts a superior attitude and says that the prince has been trifling also. The two wrongs make a right: it is after all the way of the world, and Mendicula would do best to keep quiet. He suspects that if Patricia cares to investigate the matter, she shall discover that the prince has seduced several of her maidservants.

      ‘You smooth villain, you lie to save your face!’

      Gerald takes Patricia’s arm. She clings to him.

      ‘Besides, admit, my spoilt prince, you encouraged me. By keeping Patricia happy, I merely was trying to improve your highness’s marriage.’

      This is more than the prince can tolerate.

      ‘You will make a fool of me no longer!’ he cries, drawing his sword. Gerald draws also. They fight. Patricia looks on, pale and unmoving. Well, of course unmoving on the slide.

      After many a desperate parry, Gerald draws back, his sword arm pinked. He trips on a rug, sprawling against the princess’s bed. He is open utterly to a mortal wound.

      As Mendicula hesitates, an army messenger hurries in and announces that the Lady Jemima has been found dead in her room by a maid, dressed in full bridal array. A note by her head declares that she felt herself too much dishonoured to marry such a man of honour as the General Gerald.

      At this news, it is the prince who falls back in grief. Seizing his chance, Gerald snatches up his sword and runs it through Mendicula’s side. With a last glance at Patricia, the prince dies upon her bed.

      Sad fanfares herald the end of our drama of the Prince Mendicula.

      Promptly at siesta hour, the Hoytola carriage arrived at the Chabrizzi Palace, with Armida’s chaperon, Yolaria, sitting rigid inside. Armida made her farewells and was whisked away.

      Next day, the same procedure was followed. I was not to see as much of her as I had hoped. Bengtsohn was secretive about the mercurisation and would let nobody view the results. But all appeared to be well because we continued to work slowly through the tableaux. With Armida, it seemed as if mercurisation had not taken place between us. I wondered how I could change matters. Accordingly, I walked through the thick afternoon heat to speak to All-People. De Lambant came with me for support.

      All-People stood stooped in his whiskery nook by the bottom of the scrivener’s stair. His antiquity, his frailty, made it appear that his stiff raiment supported him. His goat was tethered nearby; bluebottles investigated its beard. Neither man nor animal moved. Slow smoke trailed off the iron altar and slipped round the corner about its own business. Because of the hour, nobody was waiting to consult him.

      I put down a few paras, all I could spare from the money Bengtsohn had paid me.

      ‘You were correct in what you said, All-People.’

      ‘I see the truth is worth little.’

      ‘Alas, so am I. You said, “If you stand still enough, you will act effectively”. You referred to old Otto Bengtsohn’s zahnoscope, didn’t you? Why was I chosen?’

      He threw a crumb of powder on his ashes. They gleamed dully. The stench of Malacia was in my nostrils.

      ‘The Earth lies in an everlasting penumbra some mistake for light. The Powers of Darkness created all. One shadow merges with another.’

      ‘There is a girl, All-People, also involved in Bengtsohn’s affairs. How can I make sure that my shadow crosses hers?’

      ‘I am not the one who blesses your amulet. Go ask of him.’

      ‘I will consult Seemly Moleskin, of course. But you already have a hand in my affairs. I am ambitious and hope you can encourage me more.’

      He closed his eyes, lids falling like wrinkled lips, as if to end the session. ‘The Lord of Darkness has his brand on every one of us. To please him, you must gratify your senses until the carriage shatters.’

      I stood looking at him, but the long yellow face had closed itself off from my ken. I shuffled, the goat shook its head, nothing else happened.

      Going over to de Lambant, who stood at a respectful distance, as the custom was – to overhear someone else’s predication was fatally to entangle your own lifelines – I said, ‘Why does the Natural Religion always rouse fear and confusion? Why do I never understand what the magicians tell me?’

      ‘Because it’s all old-fashioned rubbish,’ said de Lambant. ‘I haven’t had my amulet blessed in weeks and am I any the worse for it? You’re taking this too seriously. Let’s get Portinari and have a drink.’

      ‘All-People said something about my body being shattered. My carriage, a carriage. It sometimes crosses my mind that life’s more complex than you think. I’ll go and see Mandaro.’

      Guy shook his head. ‘My dear de Chirolo, priests are worse then wizards. Stay away from them. Come, it’s hot. Let’s tip Portinari out of bed and have a drink and a chat with him.’

      ‘You go. I’ll come along later.’

      We parted. I told myself that it was absurd to have a heavy heart when my purse was so light. The priest would do me no good. The company of my friends would be a lot more cheerful. I turned. De Lambant was not out of sight. Giving him a call, I ran to join him, and we headed together for Portinari’s house.

      On the third day of our enactment of the tragedy of Prince Mendicula, the mighty zahnoscope was trained upon us when a great clatter started in the courtyard and Bengtsohn bid us wait.

      The Chabrizzis were leaving for their summer vacation in the Vukoban Mountains. In other years, Armida told me, they holidayed in a fertile valley in the Prilipits to the south of Malacia where they owned estates; but this year there were reports of Turkish armies moving in that area. As usual, Malacia was encompassed by enemies.

      Soon we were surrounded by a congregation of coaches, carriages and waggons piled with luggage and musical instruments, horses, dogs, pet snaphances, cattle and poultry, not to mention adult and infant Chabrizzis, together with their friends and servants. It was all too much for our tableau. Bengtsohn’s wife, Flora, tried to dispel the crowd, but it was not to be dispelled until it was ready. Our impresario dismissed us and walked away grumpily with his dark box under his arm.

      We were interrupted in the scene where I as the dishonourable General Gerald was taking Princess Patricia to grand balls (represented by one other dancing couple) and similar splendid occasions (represented by a painting of a marble staircase). Such enforced intimacy served to ripen the relationship between Armida and me, not only because we were the two left outside a Bengtsohn-Bonihatch comradeship which extended to most of the rest of the workshop, but because she had taken a dislike to Mendicula, whose bonihatchian sidewhiskers tickled her unendurably for minutes on end as well as – so Armida said – smelling of stale custard.

      She