His interest aroused, Toller sat down on a natural bench of rock to observe the newcomer’s progress. He was reminded of a previous time when the arrival of a royal messenger had heralded his escape from the miseries of the Loongl research station, but on this occasion the circumstances were vastly different. Lord Glo had been virtually ignored by the Great Palace since the debacle in the Rainbow Hall. In the old days the delivery of a message by hand could have implied that it was privy, not to be entrusted to a sunwriter, but now it was difficult to imagine King Prad wanting to communicate with the Lord Philosopher about anything at all.

The rider was approaching slowly and nonchalantly. By taking a slightly more circuitous route he could have made the entire journey to Glo’s residence under the smothering nets of the city’s ptertha screens, but it looked as though he was enjoying the short stretch of open sky in spite of the slight risk of having a ptertha descend on him. Toller wondered if the messenger had a spirit similar to his own, one which chafed under the stringent anti-ptertha precautions which enabled what was left of the population to continue with their beleaguered existences.

The great census of 2622, taken only four years earlier, had established that the empire’s population consisted of almost two million with full Kolcorronian citizenship and some four million with tributary status. By the end of the first two plague years the total remaining was estimated at rather less than two million. A minute proportion of those who survived did so because, inexplicably, they had some degree of immunity to the secondary infection, but the vast majority went in continual fear for their lives, emulating the lowliest vermin in their burrows. Unscreened dwellings had been fitted with airtight seals which were clamped over doors, windows and chimney openings during ptertha alerts, and outside the cities and townships the ordinary people had deserted their farms and taken to living in woodlands and forests, the natural fortresses which the globes were unable to penetrate.

As a result agricultural output had fallen to a level which was insufficient even for the greatly reduced needs of a depleted population, but Toller — with the unconscious egocentricity of the young — had little thought to spare for the statistics which told of calamities on a national scale. To him they amounted to little more than a shadow play, a vaguely shifting background to the central drama of his own affairs, and it was in the hope of learning something to his personal advantage that he stood up to greet the arriving king’s messenger.

“Good foreday,” he said, smiling. “What brings you to Greenmount Peel?”

The courier was a gaunt man with a world-weary look to him, but he nodded pleasantly enough as he reined his bluehorn to a halt. “The message I bear is for Lord Glo’s eyes only.”

“Lord Glo is still asleep. I am Toller Maraquine, Lord Glo’s personal attendant and a hereditary member of the philosophy order. I have no wish to pry, but my lord is not a well man and he would be displeased were I to awaken him at this hour except for a matter of considerable urgency. Let me have the gist of your message so that I may decide what should be done.”

“The message tube is sealed.” The courier produced a mock-rueful smile. “And I’m not supposed to be aware of its contents.”

Toller shrugged, playing a familiar game. “That’s a pity — I was hoping that you and I could have made our lives a little easier.”

“Fine grazing land,” the courier said, turning in the saddle to appraise the pasture he had just ridden through. “I imagine his lordship’s household has not been greatly affected by the food shortages.…”

“You must be hungry after riding all the way out here,” Toller said. “I would be happy to set you down to a hero’s breakfast, but perhaps there is no time. Perhaps I have to go immediately and rouse Lord Glo.”

“Perhaps it would be more considerate to allow his lordship to enjoy his rest.” The courier swung himself down to stand beside Toller. “The King is summoning him to a special meeting in the Great Palace, but the appointment is four days hence. It scarcely seems to be a matter of great urgency.”

“Perhaps,” Toller said, frowning as he tried to evaluate the surprising new information. “Perhaps not.”

“I’m not at all sure that I’m doing the right thing,” Lord Glo said as Toller Maraquine finished strapping him into his walking frame. “I think it would be much more prudent — not to mention being more fair to you — if I were to take one of the servants to the Great Palace with me and… hmm… leave you here. There is enough work to be done around the place, work which would keep you out of trouble.”

“It has been two years,” Toller replied, determined not to be excluded. “And Leddravohr has had so much on his mind that he has probably forgotten all about me.”

“I wouldn’t count on it, my boy — the prince has a certain reputation in these matters. Besides, if I know you, you’re quite likely to give him a reminder.”

“Why would I do something so unwise?”

“I’ve been watching you lately. You’re like a brakka tree which is overdue for a blow-out.”

“I don’t do that sort of thing any more.” Toller made the protest automatically, as he had often done in the past, but it came to him that he had in fact changed considerably since his first encounter with the military prince. His occasional periods of restlessness and dissatisfaction were proof of the change, because of the way in which he dealt with them. Instead of working himself up to a state in which the slightest annoyance was liable to trigger an outburst, he had learned — like other men — to divert or sublimate his emotional energies. He had schooled himself to accept an accretion of minor joys and satisfactions in place of that single great fulfilment which was yearned for by so many and destined for so few.

“Very well, young man,” Glo said as he adjusted a buckle. “I’m going to trust you, but please remember that this is a uniquely important occasion and conduct yourself accordingly. I will hold you to your word on this point. You realise, of course, why the King has seen fit to… hmm… summon me?”

“Is it a return to the days when we were consulted on the great imponderables of life? Does the King want to know why men have nipples but can’t suckle?”

Glo sniffed. “Your brother has the same unfortunate tendency towards coarse sarcasm.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not, but I’ll enlighten you just the same. The idea I planted in the King’s mind two years ago has finally borne fruit. Remember what you said about my flying higher and seeing…? No, that was Lain. But here’s something for you to… hmm… think about, young Toller. I’m getting on in years and haven’t much longer to go — but I’ll wager you a thousand nobles that I will set foot on Overland before I die.”

“I would never challenge your word on any subject,” Toller said diplomatically, marvelling at the older man’s talent for self-deception. Anybody else, with the possible exception of Vorndal Sisstt, would have remembered the council meeting with shame. So great was the philosophers’ disgrace that they would surely have been deposed from Greenmount had the monarchy not been preoccupied with the plague and its consequences — yet Glo still nurtured his belief that he was highly regarded by the King and that his fantasising about the colonisation of Overland could be taken seriously. Since the onset of his illness Glo had shunned alcohol, and was able to comport himself better as a result, but his senility remained to distort his view of reality. Toller’s private guess was that Glo had been summoned to the palace to account for the continuing failure to produce the efficacious long-range anti-ptertha weapon which was vital if normal agriculture were to resume.