Powder Burn (Burn with Sam Blackett #1) (16 page)

“
Bollocks,” said Pete.

“
Who the hell was that?” whispered Jortse.

No one replied.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Pete, “it was just a stupid bloody accident. They’re on to us now, let’s move.”

At first, the pink glow in the eastern horizon ahead of them was more illusion, more promise than reality. Sam knew that it was a promise that was always kept though, and she was finally sure that this interminable night was
about to come to an end. She glanced at her watch. Eleven hours walking while hard pressed by the pursuit had given them no chance to find a way down in the darkness. And now, if Lens was right, somewhere ahead of them – and it couldn’t be far – was a river valley running across their path. They would have to descend all the way to the forest. Once they got in it, they would have their last and best chance to lose these guys.

Just ahead of her, Pete had stopped, arching his back to get the weight of his pack onto his hip belt and off his shoulders, stretching tired muscles. Silently, they all gathered around him,
and he caught her eye. She managed a very thin smile in response.

“
Anyone have any idea how far they are behind?” he asked, pulling out his water bottle as he spoke. She could hear the exhaustion in his voice.

Jortse shrugged, not much more than a silhouette visible in the gathering light.
“I still see the flashlights sometimes, occasionally I hear something on the wind. I think they are closer, but not too close.”

Pete shook his water bottle.
“I’m out, anybody got any left?”

There was a murmur of negatives.

“Then we should stop and boil up some snow, fill the water bottles and eat. If we don’t get some food and water, we’ll crash.” He looked at Jortse. “All right?”

Jortse hesitated.

“I don’t know about you, but we’re only human,” Pete added. “If we push too hard, that’ll finish it just as surely.”

Finally, Jortse nodded.
“OK.”

Backpacks and bags thumped
onto the ground in unison. Jortse and Lens sat, while Sam opened her pack and pulled the pan out and Pete found the stove. He took them both to a rock ledge, beside which a drift of snow glowed in the weak light. Mechanically, he started to assemble it all. She sat with the others and watched him, his every move slow and awkward. He lit the stove, scooped snow into the pan and put it on.

“
I’m going to go and take a look ahead, see if I can see this forest now that there’s some light,” he said. She nodded. He glanced at his watch, and then he was gone.

Sam sighed heavily, leaned forward to rest her forehead in her hands. She was cold and tired beyond measure. No one said a word for what seemed like minutes. Then Jortse sat up quickly. Sam heard it again a moment later
– a metallic clink. Jortse moved smoothly onto his feet, reaching behind him for the sword – but it was strapped onto Lens’s pack.

“
Don’t touch it or we will kill you, we will kill all of you.” The voice came out of the gloom.

“
Shit,” said Lens.

Sam peered into the predawn light but could see nothing.

“Stand up, and move away from the bags. Jortse Choedron, if you reach for the sword I will kill you now and be done with it. Step away.” The voice still came, disembodied, out of the shadows and rocks surrounding them.

“
If you can’t see him, you can’t fight him, Jortse,” said Sam.

“
Us,” said the voice. “I have twenty men with rifles trained on you. I will count to three, and if you don’t step away from the bags by three, I will give the order to shoot.”

Sam and Lens stepped away from the bags.

“One.”

Jortse didn’t move.

“If they kill you, it’s all over,” whispered Sam. “Stay alive and fight another day.”

“
Two.”

Jortse stepped away from the sword.

“That’s better,” said the voice, before giving a command in a different language. There was a rush of movement and they were surrounded by the twenty rifles that had been promised. Shadowy men, in the same black cloaks, dark eyes cautious in solemn, bearded faces. Sam looked around her – where the hell had they all come from? There were only nine before – and Pete, where was Pete? Could he get away, could he get help?

“
Hey!” Pete’s voice came from a distance; the sound of a scuffle reached them.

“
Don’t resist or we’ll kill your friends!” shouted the same voice.

The noise of the fighting stopped. Sam narrowed in on the speaker, a short
, older man with a remarkably commanding air. 

“
Sam?” Pete called out.

“
He’s right, Pete, don’t fight them, there’re twenty of them here and they’re all armed,” she shouted back. There were footsteps. Sam and the others turned to watch as Pete was led to them.

“
What the hell?” he said, as he stumbled back into the group with the encouragement of a rifle butt. “Where did they come from? Look, the others are still miles away.”

They all turned and looked back the way they had come. The burning torches that indicated the position of the pursuit now flickered in the distance.

“You’ve had the misfortune,” said the man in charge, “or ... we’ve had the good fortune, that you have run right where we wanted you to go – and shortly we will welcome you to the Chambers of the Royal Council of Shibde. It’s not what it once was, but it is safe from the People’s Army of Demagistan. I would be honored if you would be our guests.”

“
Guests!” spat out Jortse.

“
I knew it!” said Sam.

“
Who are you and what do you want with us?” demanded Pete.

“
We’re not CIA,” added Lens.

“
Enough,” replied the man. “This is neither the time nor the place for talking, we are too close to sunrise and to the Chambers. You will come with us now, and then I will answer your questions. And you will answer mine. I must have you blindfolded, as no one can know the way. My men will lead you.”

Sam looked across at Pete.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“
Like the man said, we don’t have any choice,” she replied. And a moment later even the gloomy dawn was gone as the blindfold was strapped tight across her eyes.

Sam tried to concentrate on doing something useful, rather than worrying about what the future might hold. She remembered Pete’s technique in the snowstorm, and counted 553 paces downhill from the ambush. Then the rocky ground that they had been walking on all night suddenly flattened and smoothed. At the same time, the sound of her steps changed to indicate that they had entered some sort of building or interior. One with high ceilings and open spaces, almost cave-like in the quality of the echoes. New smells started to assault her – damp, musty smells. She counted to fifty-one before there was a right turn, then twenty-eight before a left. They descended another twenty-four steps and the sound changed again; the walls were closing in around them.

The turns came quicker, and she struggled to keep track. She was just about to give up when the guiding hand stopped her, twisted her
ninety degrees and then pushed her forward again, pulling off the blindfold as she moved. Sam blinked and rubbed at her eyes. The room was lit by a handful of yak-butter lamps, and she wrinkled her nose at the smell. The same older man that had made them prisoners on the mountain rose from his seat at the head of a long wooden table.

“
Welcome,” he said, in his strong, sonorous voice. “I am Dromo Gache, secretary to the Royal Council of Shibde. Please have a seat, have a drink, they will bring you food.”

Sam stumbled into the room
, and Lens and Pete followed. Jortse stood in the doorway, arms folded, cold, dead eyes surveying the scene from under the shadow of his hat brim. Then one of the guards nudged him forward into the room. Three more men carrying bolt-action rifles followed him. They took up station either side of the door.

“
Please, sit, drink,” Gache said again, starting to pour a dark liquid from an enameled jug into chipped glasses.

Sam sat to his right, with Pete beside her and Lens opposite. Jortse reluctantly took the seat at the other end of the table. She glanced around the room. The
yak-butter lamps flickered from tiny alcoves in the whitewashed walls, hewn from the rock. The burning, rancid oil provided more smell and atmosphere than light. The thick carpets that covered all the benches were worn and faded; the red and yellow paint on the table and shelves was chipped and peeling. There was no doubt that they were in the hands of the Shibdeese. It looked like her theory had been right, but what did it mean for the three of them? She stole a quick glance at their host as he poured a fifth glass for himself. Hunched into a thick, dark wool coat and fur waistcoat, he looked so much older in the lamplight. The lines on his face were deep, bracketing from eyes to mouth, and puffy, dark bags sagged over his cheeks. The brown eyes were sad but restless.

Hot stew and dumplings arrived. She was starving and the food was simple but good. They all tore into it, and Sam could feel it warm and revive her. Dromo Gache watched them eat in silence, hands stee
pled in front of his chin. Pete was the first to finish, and only when he pushed his plate to one side did Gache speak.

“
So, where shall we begin?” he said.

“
I want to know what the hell is going on,” said Pete, dropping his spoon on his empty plate and leaning back in his chair.

“
I’m sure you know exactly what’s going on,” said Gache.

“
We’re not CIA,” said Lens. “We came here to make a film about riding our snowboards down one of your mountains.”

“
Of course you did.” Gache smiled benignly. “I’m not a fool, I’d expect you to have a convincing cover story.”

“
I have film of it in my camera,” said Lens. “Wherever that is.”

“
You’ll get your things back once they’ve been searched. And I’d expect you to be able to substantiate your cover story. But we know that Jortse Choedron came here to incite a violent revolt, and we know that he has the support of the CIA. When we catch him, we find Americans with him. Frankly, these things seem to be too much of a coincidence.”

“
I’m not an American,” said Pete.

“
What I want to know is, who are you?” Sam interrupted to address Gache directly. “You tell us you’re the secretary to the Royal Council of Shibde – this is some sort of government-in-hiding?”

Gache frowned.

“Jortse?” Sam turned to him as she spoke, but he just smoldered back at her from under the hat brim.

“
Just for a moment,” said Sam, returning to Gache, “assume that either we are not lying, or that we have been really badly briefed. Humor us, explain what this is all about. Please.”

Gache
looked at her for a long moment.

“We all want to know,” said Lens.

Finally, Gache sighed. “All right. Shibde has a king, and the Royal Council advises him. When Demagistan invaded seventeen years ago, we withdrew to these secret chambers. We do what we can for our people, but Shibde is a Buddhist kingdom and it is against our beliefs to offer any form of violent resistance. That is why we don’t need the help of the CIA. We have no quarrel with the United States, but your intervention here is very unwelcome.”

“
They are telling the truth, they are not CIA, and I cannot understand how you think the Americans are involved,” said Jortse.

“
Do not lie to me, Jortse Choedron, it dishonors you. I’ll tell you how we know – we know because even your closest supporter, Tashi Dorge, realized that what you were planning could only bring death and destruction to Shibde. He betrayed you, Jortse Choedron. That’s how we know about your claim to have the sword. That’s how we know where you planned to cross the border and escape if you got into trouble. It’s how we know that you have talked to the CIA.”

“
Tashi? How could he possibly have told you all this? ...”

“
He’s been back to visit us five times since your families were exiled, three of them since the invasion. We know how to communicate with each other, despite the Demagistanis. We may be a very poor, very backward country, but we have ways of doing things that are centuries old, and they still work. We will recover his body, everything will be done properly, according to custom.”

“
Tashi told you they had talked to the CIA? He and Jortse were exiled?” said Pete.

“
Yes, but you know all this.” Gache smiled benignly again.

Pete shook his
head. “No, but it does explain Jortse’s perfect English. So what about yours?”

“
I said we had ways of doing things, and we are very close to the border,” replied Gache.

“
So you
were
exiled to America, Jortse?” said Sam, with a note of accusation.

“
Eventually, I was born in India,” he replied. “My father, Jortense Choedron, was one of two sons born to the king of Shibde in 1948. His twin, Ugyen, forced him from the throne ...”

“
Ah,” sighed Gache. “This is what it’s about – the throne. The Council decided the succession, Ugyen was chosen as king. Your father accepted the decision and chose to live in exile,” said Gache.

“
My father was forced from his throne and his home – the Council were wrong, they had no right,” said Jortse.

“
No, the Council have always had the right – it was clear that Ugyen was the firstborn twin and the rightful heir,” retorted Gache.

“
It was not clear, it was falsely claimed by those on the Council who envied my father his grace and his power. And so the country has been led by a weakling and a bunch of squabbling old men, and look what has happened!” Jortse leaned forward, his fists clenched on the table.

Gache jumped to his feet.
“I will not have the King of Shibde or the Royal Council referred to in this way.”

“
And I demand a hearing before the Council!” retorted Jortse.

“
And what will you request, if it is not to usurp the throne?” asked Gache.

“
Only the full Council can hear my proposal,” replied Jortse.

Gache took a deep breath. Jortse stood and leaned forward onto the table with both hands, and Sam heard the guards ready their weapons.

“I am a prince of Shibde,” said Jortse. “I have a right to be heard by the Council. If that is not enough, then I also carry the sword of the warrior Emperor Dali Shakabpu of Shibde. The legend says that it will be wielded again by the Seeker, who will free Shibde from a time of slavery, and
I
– Jortse Choedron – I am the Seeker.”

“
So you claim that it really is the sword of Dali Shakabpu?” said Gache.

“
Yes,” replied Jortse.

“
How can you know?” asked Gache.

“
The Swordmaster knew. His family have waited for many generations,” said Jortse.

“
You found
the Swordmaster
?” said Gache, incredulously. “But that legend is over a thousand years old ...”

“
Twelve hundred,” replied Jortse.

“
And yet you would take it across the border, out of Shibde? The legend says that the country will fall to a thousand years of famine and pestilence if the sword should leave the high kingdom.”

“
Who says I was going to carry it across the border?” replied Jortse. “I had a plan, and until Tashi got sick, that plan was to address the Council – and so it has come to pass anyway. I am here. I have the right, and you cannot deny it, Secretary.”

“
No, I cannot,” said Gache. “I was hoping we could settle things simply, that you would leave the sword and go quietly. But if you insist on seeing the Council, then you do have that right.”

“
I do and I will,” replied Jortse.

“
Shibde has no need of your violence, Jortse Choedron. There were reprisals for the man you beheaded, and twenty of my countrymen are now dead. These were the first executions for over three years. Things were getting better, and now they are worse, much worse. If we let you bring the CIA here, then you will turn our beautiful kingdom into a wasteland of death.”

“
Beheaded?” said Pete. “He told us that he wanted to lead a nonviolent rebellion, but he was forced to kill a man.”

“
If that was true, then why does he need you, why does he need the CIA?” retorted Gache. “Why does he carry the sword of a long-dead warrior, famous for his empire building and his brutality? I’ve heard enough of this rubbish.” Gache turned to the guard. “Take them to the cells to wait. I will call the Council.”