The Hour of the Thin Ox

by Colin Greenland

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

The barbarians are coming and what do they bring? A vivid, turbulent novel following the fates of two very different people in a land that is not their own drawn together at The Hour Of The Thin Ox In tranquil, prosperous Bryland, a young heiress learns of a new engine of war which will bring terrible change in its wake. In the distant, arrogant nation of Escaly, the elderly Imperial Geometer is sent upon an unexpected and frightening mission. In the dark, feverish jungles of Belanesi, a strange half-human people wait for a season of rain and the call of a mysterious piper. At the Hour of the Thin Ox three cultures collide, with violent and paradoxical consequences.

Release date: October 2, 2013

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 189

Sample

They came at first light in their glorious barges, painted with the bright unfamiliar colours of the Seven Realms. All the servants ran up and down the gallery, jostling for the best view. Jillian Curram buried her head under the pillow and wouldn’t come out.

‘Come quick and see! Come quick or you’ll miss them!’

She didn’t move. Her nurse thought she was playing.

‘Well, wherever can she be? Upon my soul there’s no sign of the girl. No sign of the little mistress. Where is she now, I wonder? And such a fine sight to see from her own window – all the noblemen in their fine array – scarlet and emerald and cloth-of-gold – which is the Prince, do you think? There’s a barge all full of horses. Beautiful snow-white horses …’

Jillian Curram was not to be tempted, not even with horses. Angelica swished across the room and pounced on her.

‘Who’s a sleepy-head this morning?’

She snatched at the pillow, but Jillian clung tightly to it. Angelica whisked back the quilts and tickled her, without so much as a muffled giggle by way of response. Jillian could decide, when she put her mind to it, not to be ticklish. That meant trouble. Angelica grew plaintive.

‘What will you do? You can’t keep your bed this morning, Miss Jill, that’s for sure. You know what day it is. And with the beautiful boats all sailing by beneath your very window …’

And so on.

Bethalie Beavon came clattering upstairs with Robbie. They stopped, uncertainly, outside the door. On a special occasion for excitement children would be children, even in House Curram. If Jillian had been kneeling on the sill in her nightdress, all the maids and pantry boys would have come in and joined her to ooh and ah and make smeary marks on the window. But Jillian was still in bed.

‘What’s wrong with the little mistress, Angelica?’

‘Is she sick?’

Angelica left her to shoo them away, and Jillian took advantage of her departure to bundle the quilts back over her.

‘Now come, Miss Jill, you can’t laze abed today and you know why. The whole house has been up and hard at work for hours, and I’ve plenty still to do without wasting my time on a wilful child who won’t get up when she’s told.’

There was more in the same vein, but Jillian Curram was indeed a wilful child, and not to be cajoled or scolded out of her humour.

She was not actually sulking. To be sure, she could not have said why she loathed the prospect of the day, the banquet and the ball and the grand, stiff costume with the ruffles in the Luscan style, in honour of the Prince of Luscany, and all the pleases and thank yous and the rest of the grim rigmarole of obedience – all she knew was that she loathed it, and would do anything to forestall its arrival. To that end she remained buried, and held her tongue, which bothered Angelica out of all patience.

‘Must I fetch your lady mother to you?’ she demanded, and when Jillian didn’t stir, strode out in high dudgeon.

Jillian reckoned it was time to shift the battleground. She jumped out of bed, neglected to put on her robe and slippers, and ran out into the gallery. Bethalie and Robbie turned from the window.

‘Aren’t you dressed yet, Miss Jill?’ asked Robbie superfluously. They both frowned, but Jillian knew they wouldn’t interfere. She tossed her head disdainfully and tried not to glance out of the window as she scurried by. Even so, she caught a glimpse of that great procession coming stately and slow under sails as yellow as the prairies.

Jillian bounded down the back stairs, almost bowling over Dickon Troke, coming up to watch from the gallery. The back stairs were his territory, not hers, so he shouted a rude word at her, and she put out her tongue as she turned the corner and hurtled on down.

Her nurse and mother eventually found her on her favourite high stool by the kitchen fire. She had had time to charm two doughnuts out of Matt the cook and steal a third. Matt was up to his elbows in flour and trying to oversee all the crew who were chopping and peeling, fetching and carrying: he was in no mood to tangle with Jillian too. Chewing unconcernedly, she gazed at the fat logs as they crackled and blackened.

‘There you are, you naughty child!’

‘Jillian Curram, you are a bore,’ said her mother, squeezing between vats and trestles as she swept down on her. ‘I don’t know how Angelica has patience with you.’

Matt, embarrassed at having harboured and fed a fugitive criminal, was bobbing his head and wiping his hands on his apron. ‘You’re a very naughty little girl,’ said Angelica, ‘and a trial to your mother,’ but Curram ignored them both, picking her daughter up from her perch and hugging her briefly to her padded and perfumed bosom. The Seal of Curram dug painfully into Jillian’s ribs. Carefully avoiding the sticky mouth, her mother kissed her and delivered her to her guardian, who shook Jillian’s hand crossly and led her away.

‘Jillian,’ her mother called, ‘I’ll have no nonsense from you today, please. You’re the jewel of House Curram, you little barbarian, and if you don’t sparkle tonight I’ll sell you to the soldiers.’

Jillian Curram was nine and three-quarters. Her mother had always talked to her like that since she was a baby, never condescending for a moment. Jillian was her heir, and would be worthy of her, or not worthy of her attention. Whatever Jillian did she loved her with a fierce devotion, which was barely noticed and never acknowledged. Another girl might have transferred her affections to Nurse, who was at least available; but Jillian was not to be satisfied with surrogates, and treated Angelica quite cruelly. She had seized upon the terrible truth that Angelica, when it came down to it, was not important; and Angelica perhaps sensed this, without understanding it. She thought it was the arrogance of childishness, and treated Jillian as the baby she took her for. She towed her away now to be scrubbed, confined in a plain frock until the evening, and sent with a mug of tomato juice to the schoolroom. There was no further breakfast, because of the doughnuts.

Morelio her tutor, predictably enough, talked about the Cathills. Jillian had often suspected he was a Cat himself – he was certainly a foreigner – so she said, to provoke him:

‘They don’t have a Sovereign Assembly, do they, sir, the Cats I mean?’

He bridled. ‘You must not use that word, Jillian.’

‘Which word, sir?’

‘Only rude and vulgar people call the natives of the Seven Realms Cats. It’s most improper.’

‘But why, sir? They come from the Cathills, so they must be Hillcats, sir; and they’re always fighting each other, you just said so.’

Jillian had heard her mother call them Cats, but would never have betrayed her, even to embarrass Morelio. He grew impatient, and spoke rapidly.

‘Prince Dolo of Luscany and General Hargon of Mohan-Mandevale will kiss your hand at the ball tonight, Jillian, and what will you do then, scratch them under the chin and offer them a saucer of cream, hm?’

Jillian giggled.

‘Now sit up straight and pay attention, please. There is nothing whatsoever of the feline about the people of the Cathills. They are human as you or I, as you could have seen by studying them as they sailed by earlier this morning. Observe and learn, Jillian, observe and learn. It will be useful to you later. And to answer your question, no, the Seven Realms do not enjoy the benefits of rule by a Sovereign Assembly as we do in Bryland. Each realm is governed by its own ruler, in a pattern of alliances which has changed remarkably throughout history.’

He was reading covertly from the book. Jillian said, ‘Is that why there are eight of them, sir?’

Morelio raised an elegant eyebrow.

‘Harmont, Perimont, Luscany, Ducros, Bathista, Broken River, Mohan-Jaspa and Mohan-Mandevale,’ she recited.

Morelio blinked.

‘Page 51, sir.’

‘Ah. I am glad to see you are paying attention, Jillian.’ Hastily he caught up. ‘Yes. If you now turn to page 54, Jillian, you will note that the Treaty of Dead Rock, 1052, though nominally granting jurisdiction over the territories of Harmont and Perimont to Count Carl IV, effectively split Perimont into three counties, one of which at least was the tribal land of the Veniak of Bathista, or Bandu as it then was, while the Partition of Mohan, 1069, notwithstanding the so-called Woodcutters’ Charter of the previous year …’

A bar of sunlight crept silently across the green baize tablecloth. Through the open window Jillian could see the swifts spiralling in the soft air, and hear the distant fanfare that announced the arrival of the seventeen state barges from the Seven (or Eight) Realms of the Cathills to the city of Hovenstok in Bryland. A reception committee of the Sovereign Assembly waited, ruffled but dignified, in the brisk wind on the Hovenstok waterfront; and tonight they would all be coming to dine with Jillian Curram’s mother.

Luncheon, meanwhile, was horrible. Jillian mashed the stewed sish into a mess, then sighed and stared at it glumly.

‘I don’t want it.’

Angelica glowered. ‘There’s plenty of little poor girls over in Neath who’d say thank you for a nice dish of fruit and custard.’

‘Let them eat it.’

‘There’ll be no tea today, you know that.’ Angelica rose bad temperedly and swept off the offending junket. ‘Nor any banquet either, if I had my way! One word from me –!’

She sent her recalcitrant charge back to the schoolroom.

Jillian hesitated on the stairs, watching two flies flick in and out of a shaft of sunlight. The sun was warm on her cheek and shoulder.

She suspected everyone would be too busy to notice her, but it was a risk. She couldn’t just loiter about the grounds. There was, however, one place she could go.

In the greenhouse it was hot and dank as always. Jillian sat under her bush and pretended she was in the jungle. She thought of a plan: to steal a Hillcat barge and run away! She wished her father would come and take her off with him.

Jillian had seen her father three times, though she no longer remembered the first with any certainty. He did not live in Bryland. At Mospher Quay Jillian had seen big red tree trunks, skins of strange animals and vats of sticky oil as tall as a man, being unloaded from enormous creaking ships. All those ships sailed in obedience to her father’s word. He himself lived in Tarquia, in Tarnosh, where it was always sunny, and sent her exorbitant and inappropriate presents once a year.

Morelio had shown Jillian where Tarnosh was on the map. She had looked at it again since, several times, wondering. In the blue water was drawn one of the giant fish that eat people; and in the green jungleland just below, a fearsome animal with horns and long teeth. Angelica had told her that these animals could talk. Jillian refused to believe it.

There were footsteps on the gravel.

Jillian Curram sat huddled in the green shade. Her heart was beating quickly, but she took no notice of it. Go away, she thought.

The greenhouse door opened, and closed.

‘You can come out now, Jillian Curram. I saw you.’

It was only stupid Dickon Troke. Jillian did not move. Catching her and marching her off to Angelica was just the sort of thing he would love to do. Dickon Troke wanted to be a soldier when he grew up.

‘Come out, Miss Jillian.’ He began poking the plants on the other side of the room, with occasional kicks and muttered cries. ‘Ha!’

Jillian sat as still as a toad, despising him. She had no great opinion of little boys, or of soldiers either. There were lots of women soldiers, she knew that, but all the ones who came to House Curram, all the important ones, they were always men. Jillian was most suspicious of this. She knew it was not her fate to be told what to do by men. She would not come out for Dickon Troke.

Suddenly his hand was on her ankle, jerking her over backwards and dragging her out into the open.

Dickon leaned over his captive. Jillian spat at him.

‘Ugh!’

He scrubbed at his face. She scrambled to her feet and hit him on the side of the head.

Dickon Troke went bright red. He came at her, arms outstretched, fingers clawing. Jillian lashed out again and hit him in the throat. His foot slipped, and he went down on his back. His shoulder caught a bench, and it toppled. There was a cascade of plant pots. One of them smashed a pane. Dickon sprawled, choking, trying to rise.

Jillian fled with complete satisfaction. Now the glass was broken, Dickon would be thrashed, which she never would be. And she would arrive back too late for lessons, but in plenty of time to wash and dress for the banquet.

Angelica, of course, began to screech when she saw the state of her frock and stockings. ‘No banquet for you!’ she said again as she grappled righteously with the tangles of Jillian’s thick brown hair.

‘In that case I won’t have to wear this stupid dress.’

It was starched, and flounced with Luscan frills, for the sake of the visiting Prince.

‘You be quiet. I’ll tell your mother what you’ve been about, you see if I don’t.’

She didn’t. Angelica was past the point of reporting all Jillian’s misdeeds. Jillian knew that too. Angelica marched her into the east wing, knocked on the door, mumbled, curtsied, and disappeared.

‘Daughter,’ said the Matron of House Curram. She held her arms out stiffly, though Jillian knew she would not actually be embraced, because of the frills.

In Curram’s office stucco vines dangled plaster berries over the hideous redwood bureau. The room was cold whatever the season, and even Jillian had never felt any desire to pry into the contents of its cabinets and pigeonholes.

‘Humour me, Jill,’ said Curram, offering her a sliver of dried fish. ‘Treat these peculiar people as if they impressed you. Curtsey before their ridiculous dignity. Preen their self-importance. Don’t ask them why there are no women in their army, don’t ask them anything without asking me first, and don’t whatever you do mention cats.’ She smiled bleakly, and paced away across the uncomfortable room to seize a sheaf of papers from the counting-table. She scanned the top sheet and rattled it in Jillian’s direction as if it should mean something to her. Jillian watched her apprehensively, her hands behind her back.

‘Everyone, everyone in Hoven is queueing up to take money off this new “alliance”,’ said her mother. ‘We are the first in line. Remember that. It will mean much to you in years to come, when you are Curram.’ She tapped the Seal with an imperious finger.

‘Yes, mother,’ said Jillian.

Curram cast her eye over the young girl, reading her just as she had read her paper. ‘You look perfectly adorable in that outlandish style,’ she said. ‘Do you think it’s an honour that you’ll be the only child at the banquet?’

‘Yes, mother,’ said Jillian.

‘Well, it isn’t,’ said Curram. ‘It’s a duty, daughter.’

She flicked a hand towards the door and Jillian left, closing it gently behind her.

Jillian’s resentment of that morning was still entirely intact, but the mechanical inevitability of the event had taken over, together with a growing curiosity. On the way to her mother’s office she had looked through the banisters and seen the first Cats arrive, servants checking the preparations for their masters. They had looked human enough from above.

She ran noiselessly downstairs in her morganine slippers and stole into the conservatory. Here, secure in the confidence she was behaving with a propriety that even Morelio might approve, she could watch all that was going on in the dining room (provided she pulled the curtain back a little first) while practising on the clavichord. Observe and learn, Jillian, observe and learn. She marched virtuously up the scales and down again. Robbie was rushing around with his arms full of candles, while the gardener’s girls tidied the potted alianzas and organised imposing centrepieces. She plodded through ‘The Happy Skylark’. Sharp-featured Cats in fantastic turbans brought in a sling of kegs, and Dickon Troke, looking no worse for his defeat, leaned on his broom muttering remarks to Bethalie Beavon, who giggled. Jillian thudded into ‘The Reaper’s Lament’.

‘And this is my daughter Jillian,’ said her mother to the Prince of Luscany.

Startled, Jillian slammed the lid down over the keys, catching the tip of her little finger. She jumped up, stifling a cry.

Prince Dolo was a slight man with the face of a falcon and a suit of deepest crimson. ‘Enchanted,’ he said, without a trace of an accent, and, just as Morelio had predicted, brushed Jillian’s tingling hand with his moustache. ‘Such talent in one of so tender years,’ he observed. ‘Curram is rich in gifts of harmony and concord.’

Jillian goggled at her mother, who received the transferred compliment with courtly grace, and glanced at her expectantly over Prince Dolo’s head. Jillian stood gazing helplessly at the Luscan royal party in a state of utter panic.

Beaked faces swathed in cloth regarded her. A little girl, no more than five years old, clutched a servant’s hand and stared at her in profound suspicion. Seeing Jillian struggling, the Prince ventured to help.

‘I see you like the pretty dresses of our women. Do you know any of the musics of Luscany also?’

Jillian nodded desperately. ‘I’m learning to play “Manori Ro”,’ she said. Did that sound enthusiastic enough? ‘It’s my favourite,’ she added. There was a slight pause while she realised she would now have to go through with it. Dredging up memories of a lesson months previous, she opened the clavichord again and pecked out a few faltering bars, her damaged finger limping.

The Prince’s daughter wrinkled her nose and said something to her guardian, who hushed her. Prince Do. . .