Jango (37 page)

A number of Caspians were grazing untethered by the roadside. An Orlan band must be in possession of the house. He thought of moving on to somewhere less troublesome, but he was tired and hungry. With luck, they would ignore him.

He opened the door and found a drunken party was in full swing within. Orlans crowded the benches, but not only Orlans—there were spikers at the tables too, and on the tables. Those on the benches were beating the boards with their fists and singing, and those on the tables were dancing and singing. Empty brandy bottles rolled about on the floor. Plates of rice and beans, half eaten, lay here and there on the tables, where they were stamped on by the dancing boots. A bright fire roared in the hearth.

No one heard Seeker come in, and no one asked him his business as he settled himself down in a corner by the window. He took up one of the plates of rice and beans and quietly set about finishing off what had been left. As he ate, he watched the drunken dancers.

The dancing was not quite as wild as at first he had supposed. There was a sort of order to it. The dancers formed two rough rings. The outer ring was made up of the true drunkards, still with bottles in their hands, who flailed their limbs about without any reference to the rhythmic beats of the song. The inner ring were attempting the steps of the dance, a staggering affair that lurched from right foot to left foot and back again, in time to the table-banging of their companions.

"
No home but the road for me!
No roof but the sky for me!
No law but the knife for me!
So what's to do but drink!
"

Then they held their bottles high and gave a cheer and drank. A gap opened up briefly in the rings of dancers, and Seeker saw a swarthy Orlan, with a bottle in one hand, singing at the top of his voice. He still wore his bright armor and had his whip and his sword in his belt. His face was red as a tomato, and he was beaming with pleasure as he joined in the song.

It was Amroth Jahan.

Seeker looked on in amazement. What had happened to the proud warlord? Anger was to be expected, and despair, and shame. But dancing and laughter?

Then he saw through the jumping figures that the Jahan was not alone in the center of the circle. He was dancing close to a woman. The woman had her back to Seeker, but he knew he had seen that rich mass of black hair and that voluptuous figure before. When she turned in her stamping dance and he saw her face, he remembered her name. It was the Wildman's friend Caressa.

The dance came to an end shortly, terminated only by the emptying of the brandy bottles. Amroth Jahan, profoundly drunk, had to be helped off the table to the floor.
There he slumped to a sitting position, his back against the wall, grinning and calling out.

"Here, beauty! Want you, beauty! Kissy kissy!"

Caressa dropped down by his side and he took her in his arms.

"Say it again!" he cried, holding her tight. "Say it again!"

"Youngster!" she said, laughing. "Stripling! Colt!"

"Where's the old man?"

"I see no old man. I see a young fellow. Big and strong and young!"

"Oh, you beauty! Kiss me again!"

Seeker looked on in sadness. He felt no joy in the Great Jahan's downfall, and no desire to inflict any further punishment. What was done was done. It was enough that the once all-powerful warlord who had set out to conquer the world was reduced to groveling for the flattery of bandits.

He finished eating, then rose, meaning to leave as quietly as he had come. But at this point, one of the bandit gang spotted him.

"Heya!" he cried. "A hoodie!"

Others turned at the cry and, seeing Seeker, began to jeer.

"Hoodie, hoodie, lost your god!"

"Boom-bang! Bye-bye god!"

Seeker realized with a sinking heart that they supposed his powers had died with the destruction of Anacrea. He bowed his head, not wanting to provoke a conflict, and made for the door.

"Not so fast, little hoodie!"

They gathered round him, prodding at him.

"Not so noble any more, eh?"

Caressa now came to see what her gang had found. She recognized him from their brief encounter in Spikertown.

"That's one of the kiddies went off with the Wildman," she exclaimed. "So you're a hoodie now?"

Shab, who was right behind her, gave a mocking laugh.

"A saddy, more like."

"Hey, sad boy," said Caressa, coming up close to Seeker. "Think you're better than everyone else, do you?"

"No," said Seeker. "I've no quarrel with you."

"How about I've a quarrel with you, boy?"

Amroth Jahan now came lumbering through the crowd. When he saw Seeker, he burst into laughter.

"Why, that's the one! That's him! He was there in the battle!"

"You and your battle!" said Caressa. "If I'd been there, you'd be telling a different story."

"He's the one that made me kneel!" cried the Jahan.

He dropped to his knees and shuffled forward.

"Look, I'm kneeling again! I'm kissing your hand!" He tried to take hold of Seeker's hand. "Don't care any more. You want me to kiss your feet, too?"

"Get up, you fool," said Caressa, laughing and pulling him to his feet. "He's just a sad boy."

The Jahan wrapped his arms round her and grinned at Seeker.

"See, sad boy? I've got a beautiful woman in my arms and I'm young again. So I don't care if the whole world
kisses your hand. I've got a woman who kisses more than hands."

He fell to smothering Caressa's lips and cheeks and neck with wild drunken kisses.

"Get off me," said Caressa, still laughing. "You'll get all the kissing you want. Right now I mean to teach this sad boy how to dance."

"Heya!" cried the bandits. "Dance lessons!"

"Make a ring for our guest, boys! Shab, see to the fire."

The bandits pushed back the tables and formed a ring round Seeker, their blades now drawn to make it plain that he was not at liberty to go. The Jahan shook his head vigorously from side to side and tried to stop them, but he kept bursting into laughter and forgetting what he meant to say, so he gave up and sat down on a bench to watch.

"You'd better let me go," said Seeker quietly.

But Shab was scattering hot coals from the fire over the open space of the floor, and the bandit ring was tightening. The points of their blades poked at Seeker, nudging him onto the coals.

"See, boy," said Caressa, "I don't like you hoodies. You took my Wildman and stole his soul and made him into a sad boy. So now I'm going to make you dance."

Seeker looked at her and said nothing. For all her taunts, he felt no anger. They didn't understand. That was no crime. He didn't understand himself. So it seemed to him the simplest way to silence her was to do as she asked.

With his mind he reached down into the soles of his bare feet and prepared them, making them strong. He
gathered the lir in the tips of his fingers and the palms of his hands. Then he stepped onto the hot coals and felt no pain. He stooped and picked up the hot coals in his hands and was not burned.

He held out the hissing coals to Caressa. She started back from him, her eyes now wide with fear. Seeker saw the meaning of that look. He had become a strange and monstrous creature.

"Let's go, boys!"

The bandits and the Orlans melted away, taking the Jahan with them. Seeker put the coals back in the fire. They had not so much as singed his skin.

By the time he was out on the road again, they were gone. He had put them to flight. Once again he was the victor. But there was no glory in it. He had not sought these powers, and he didn't know how to use them. He had broken the army that had attacked the Nom, but the Nom had been destroyed, anyway. Now all authority was overthrown. The land was in the grip of anarchy. It was one thing to win a battle, but who was then to rule?

Seeker made his way down the road, following the line of the old ruined wall. It seemed to him he had been given an immense responsibility, but he felt helpless in the face of it. Was he supposed to be the bringer of order? Was he supposed to set himself up as king?

The spikers were right. He was just a sad boy.

So why had he been given so much power?

I didn't ask for it. I'm no one special. All I ever wanted was to be a Noble Warrior. All I ever wanted was to live in the Garden.

The Garden was gone. Once more, desolation gripped his heart. Why the voices? Why raise his hopes, only to leave him with nothing?

Who is doing this to me?

The questions echoed through his mind, one after another, circling and calling like seagulls. There were no answers, only more questions.

Where am I to go?

What am I?

Who am I?

He felt a lurching shock within himself. It was as if with this last simple question he had stumbled on some hard obstacle that blocked his way. The question turned out not to feel so simple after all. And yet surely he knew the answer. He knew his own name, and his parents' names. He could describe himself. So why did it feel all of a sudden as if he did not know who he was?

He remembered the shadow in the cloud. It had been his shadow, but it had not been him.

Nervously he looked now for his shadow. There it was, faint in the cold gray winter light, and unremarkable.

I am Seeker after Truth. I was born on Anacrea. My father is the schoolteacher. I have been trained as a Noble Warrior.

But that was all only a small part. There was so much more. Most of him was hidden from himself.

I am more than I know.

Seeker had no idea where this strange notion had come from, but now that it entered his mind it would not leave. It frightened him to think he could be someone or something other, but it also came as a relief. Ever since he had first heard the voice in the Nom, he had felt as if he was living inside a maze. Somewhere was the right way to go, the way that would let him out of the maze, but he never knew which turning to take. Now it seemed to him obvious that he did not know and could never know. If the self that was trying so hard to make sense of everything was not his real self—or was only a small part of a much bigger self—then of course he wouldn't know. His little finger didn't know why he was walking down the road. All it could do was come along with the rest of him. His present notion of himself was perhaps like that: too small to comprehend the greater purpose of which he was a part.

Who am I?

More than I know.

Keep walking.

He began to sing the song that had come to him in the cloud.

"Jango up, jango down
Jango smile, jango frowny
Weep your tears, say your prayers
No man hears, no man cares
Seek a, seek a, seek a door—"

And there was the strange old man, seated on his sitting-stick, between the road and the old wall ahead. And right by the place where he was sitting there was a door in the wall.

Jango raised one hand in greeting.

"Here at last! Young Hero! Or maybe you've got yourself a new name by now, eh? New names for new times."

"Did you know I was coming?"

"Why else am I here? The faithful keeper of the key to the door. Not that I have a key. But then, nor does the door have a lock."

He studied Seeker with his little brown eyes.

"You're getting the hang of doors by now, I should say."

"I don't think I'm getting the hang of anything."

"But there's no getting anywhere without doors. And surely you know," he added with a mischievous smile, "that where your way lies, the door is always open."

Seeker stared at him.

"How do you know that?"

"The same way you know it."

"You hear voices, too?"

"All the time."

"Where do they come from? Do you know?"

"Yes, I know. And so do you. But you've forgotten."

"Then, tell me! Make me remember!"

Jango smiled and shook his head.

"Please!" said Seeker. To his shame he felt tears rising to his eyes. It was all so difficult. He had lost so much. The sadness could not be kept inside any more.

"Dear boy!" exclaimed Jango, much moved. "My dear boy! This won't do."

He produced a faded scrap of handkerchief and dabbed at Seeker's cheeks.

"What has happened to distress you so?"

It seemed the old man knew nothing of recent events. Seeker told him how Anacrea had been destroyed and, with it, the Nom and the Lost Child he had sworn to protect. Jango listened and clicked his tongue in dismay.

"And you believed you were meant to prevent this?"

"Why else have I been given the power?"

"To kill the savanters. I thought that was quite clear."

"I have killed the savanters."

"All of them?"

"All but two."

At this, Jango looked very grave.

"That is unfortunate. Do you know where to find them?"

"In the cloud."

"The cloud has gone."

"Gone?" Seeker was dismayed. Where was he to find the savanters now?

"You will have to go another way, I think."

"But I don't know any other way."

Jango pointed at the old wooden door in the wall behind him.

"This way, perhaps. If it is a way."

He rapped on the door with his knuckles.

"To be exact, I suppose it's a door. And yet when you start to think about it, you discover that there is nothing exact about doors. I mean, what is the essence of a door? A plank of wood isn't a door. Nor is a hole in a wall. Nor is a plank of wood fixed into a hole in a wall. It must open. One must, you see, be able to go through."

Seeker felt confused and disappointed. Why was the old man rambling on in this way?

"Yes," he said. "Obviously."

"Obviously? It took me years to understand that. So you believe you can identify the essence of a door?"

"No, no." Seeker shook his head. "I don't really know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do." Jango gave him a reproachful look, as if he were a student who had forgotten a recent lesson. "It's the threshold, of course. The threshold is the essence of a door. The threshold lies between here and there." He pointed with one finger. "You cross from here, over the threshold, to there."