Slaves of the Mastery (27 page)

All down the long roofless hall, the ground is shivering and cracking, tearing itself apart like a wound that has healed and now opens again. Fragments of rock sheer off the sides and rattle
down through the great space to clatter on the floor below. The Singer people sing on, rocking and stamping, feeling the earth part beneath their feet. As dawn breaks, the soft light reaches down
to reveal the walls of the ever-widening rift, and the dusty vastness of the great cave below.

The ground stops moving at last, and the song ends: or rather, it changes, and becomes a quieter chant. Immediately, those close to the edge step out into space, and float slowly down. The
others, singing all the while, wait their turn to follow after, in a steady stream.

Now it’s Dogface the hermit who steps off the crumbling edge, and lets himself float down into shadows. The torn rock walls widen as he falls, slanting away to meet the smooth stone floor
of the great cave. To one side, in a deeper chasm cut by the fast-flowing water, there runs an underground river, an undersea river, which disappears into vaults of rock. High above him now, the
lightening sky. All around him, his brothers and sisters. And before him, raised on a platform carved from the rock floor, the stone tomb.

Four columns support a shallow-pitched roof. Within, on a stone bier, there lies the grey and wizened body of a long-dead man. Here, in the stillness of the underground cave, he has lain
undisturbed since the day he died, hundreds of years ago. His flesh has shrivelled away to the bone. His face has become a skull shrouded in fragments of yellow skin. His hands rest clasped on his
chest, bones on bones.

When he lived, his name was Ira Manth. They call him the prophet. He has died, but his powers remain. They live on in his followers, the Singer people. And they live on in his children.

Now the song is ending in the great river cave of Sirene. The singers fall quiet. They know that they must wait, for an unknown length of time. They are accustomed to waiting. During this time,
more and more of their people will come, until they are all gathered together. Then the child of the prophet will come. Then it will be time.

In this way
, the prophet promised,
I live again and I die again.

C
reoth sat on his stool in the cowshed, his hands drawing hot milk from the udder of the patient cow, and watched the dawn over the misty land. The
milk hissed into the wooden pail in rhythmic spurts, the notes growing deeper as the pail filled. The cow tugged hay from the bulging net hung up before her. Others in the small herd lowed softly,
impatient to be milked in their turn.

Now the sun rose above the rim of the far hills, and the burning red disc spilled sudden colour over the chilled fields. The grey forest sparkled and turned pink: and for a few moments, before
the sun climbed into cloud, the world glowed as if newborn.

‘Quite a show, eh, Cherub?’ said Creoth. He dipped a ladle into the pail and drank warm milk for his breakfast, moving his arm slowly, taking slow sips. Then he rose and emptied the
pail into the big churn on the wagon behind him, and moved his milking-stool to the next cow. He sighed as he settled down, wriggling his fingers to keep them supple.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he murmured to the restless cow. ‘I know you had to wait, but I’m here now.’

The cow swung round her mournful head to gaze at him.

‘And good day to you too, my Star,’ said Creoth, and set to work. Star reached for the hay-bundle, and the disappearing sun turned the underside of the clouds gold.

So it went each morning, and Creoth was content. He was not a young man any more; and his former life, already slipping into oblivion, had been solitary, quiet, and regular. Cows suited him.
They made no sudden movements. They did the same things at the same time every day. Most of all, he liked their smell. The milk, of course, with its rich froth of bubbles in the pail; but also the
smell of their damp hide, and of the fields they grazed, and of their manure, which was the smell of cows and grass and earth all mixed up together.

As he finished the morning’s milking, he heard the rattle and tap of wagons moving down the distant high road. Looking up he saw framed in the cowshed doorway a long procession of horse
riders and carriages. Some of the carriages were very grand indeed, decorated in gold pinnacles, drawn by double teams of horses. They were making their way towards the lakeside, and the causeway
to the High Domain.

‘That’ll be the bride,’ said Creoth to the cows. ‘There’s to be a grand wedding today.’

He told his cows everything. They looked solemnly back at him, meditating on what he said, never replying.

‘May she be happy, eh, Star? May she be happy.’

When the guards came to the slave quarters that morning to make their usual selection for the monkey cages, Pinto whispered to her father, ‘I’ll take my turn
today.’

Hanno shook his head.

‘No, darling. Today’s the most dangerous day of all.’

‘I know,’ said Pinto. ‘You and ma have work to do. But I have nothing.’

‘Well, let’s hope they don’t pick me or your mother.’

But the guards picked Ira Hath. At the same time a message arrived for Hanno Hath, requiring his presence, wedding or no wedding, in the academy library. This left no one to prepare for their
escape.

‘You see,’ said Pinto. ‘It has to be me.’

‘Darling,’ said her mother to her, ‘you can’t go in the cage today. This is the day. I feel it. We can’t be sure the people in the cages will get out in
time.’

‘Ma, look at me.’ Ira met her younger daughter’s earnest eyes. ‘I’m only little. I can’t do anything. But I can do this. Don’t you see? At last I can be
of some use.’

‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’

‘Don’t I?’ She leaned forward and kissed her mother’s cheek, and whispered in her ear. ‘I’m saying maybe I’ll die in the cage, so that you can get our
people away.’

It was that quick kiss that moved Ira Hath most.

‘Oh, my dearest. Have you grown up too? Must you leave me too?’

‘You know I’m right. You must gather our people. I can’t do that. Today’s the day.’

Her mother turned to Hanno, unable to make the decision. Hanno looked at Pinto, and saw the pride in her eyes.

‘The child’s right,’ he said. ‘Go then, my darling. We won’t let you come to harm.’

Pinto ran to the guards and told them that she was taking her mother’s place. The guards were indifferent. So long as they had one member from each kin group, their job was done.

Hanno Hath went with her to the crossroads, and watched as she was locked into one of the monkey wagons. Pinto smiled as she stood there, holding the bars, and waved at him to show he
mustn’t be afraid for her.

‘I’ll be back for you,’ he said. And went on his way with a heavy heart.

Sisi sat veiled in her carriage, looking out of the window, trembling with nervous excitement. There were labourers out in the fields already, and all of them were standing
still, staring at the endless procession of carriages.

‘Lunki!’ said Sisi in amazement. ‘They don’t cover their eyes!’

‘The poor heathens!’ said Lunki. ‘They don’t know any better, my pet.’

‘Do they know they’ll all have their eyes put out?’

‘I should hope not,’ said Lunki. ‘My good baby is wearing her veil.’

‘Oh, so I am. I’m never quite sure if it’s there or not.’

‘Baby drink a little milky?’

‘No, Lunki. Take it away. This is my wedding day. I can’t possibly eat.’

‘Drinking’s not the same as eating. My baby hardly needs to make her mouth move at all.’

Sisi shook her head, and turned to Kestrel.

‘What are you looking at, Kess?’

Kestrel was sitting gazing out of the other carriage window at the Johjan Guards. The mounted soldiers rode two by two in front of their carriage as far as she could see, and behind, all the way
to the bend in the road. Kestrel felt as if she was leading her own army into the heart of the enemy stronghold.

‘I’m looking at where we’re going.’

In the distance now she could see the lake and the causeway, and the walls of the High Domain. Ten times the size of Aramanth at its greatest, the amber city with its tumble of jewelled domes
awed her gaze. This extraordinary city-palace had been built by the people who had burned her home and enslaved her family. And yet, glorious as it was, beautiful even, Kestrel had laid plans for
its destruction. This skinny fifteen-year-old with no title and no position had judged the Mastery and passed sentence of death. Her weapon was her own passionate and merciless will. Today was the
day of the wedding, and the day of the execution.

I am the avenger.

‘You said something would happen to stop the wedding,’ said Sisi. ‘But nothing’s happened.’

‘You’re not married yet,’ said Kestrel. ‘They can’t make you be married if you don’t want to.’

‘They can,’ said Sisi. ‘If everyone expects you to do something, and they’re all looking at you, then you do it.’

‘You’ll know what to do when the time comes.’

What Kestrel couldn’t tell her was that if all went as she planned, Sisi would have no decision to make.

‘There, you see, my pet,’ said Lunki. ‘You’re not to worry, like the friend says.’

Lunki didn’t approve of Kestrel. She knew nothing of Kestrel’s concealed plans, and had no opinion about her opinions. Her objection was that the Johdila Sirharasi of Gang should not
have a friend. It demeaned her high status. Ordinary people had friends. Royalty had subjects. Lunki could not imagine venturing any criticism of her mistress, certainly not aloud, so she limited
herself to calling Kestrel ‘the friend’, as one might say ‘the hairdresser’, ‘the dance instructor’. In this way she turned Kestrel into a functionary like
herself, and was satisfied.

Two carriages ahead, the Johanna gazed out of his window at the High Domain, and he in his turn was awed. It was smaller than Obagang, his own capital city, heart of the Sovereignty of Gang: but
by comparison with this jewel of a city, Obagang suddenly seemed shabby. The great buildings of his capital were made of stone, but they were squat heavy structures, quite unlike these exquisite
domes. And the bulk of his city was nothing but timber hovels, crowding one upon another like so much refuse. He had never felt this before. As ruler of the greatest empire of the civilised world,
he had been accustomed to a comfortable all-pervading sense of superiority. It came as an unpleasant shock to find himself entering a palace grander than any he possessed. The Grand Vizier, he
reflected, had been quite right in arranging this marriage. The man who had formed this country out of nothing at all, the man they called the Master, would make a powerful enemy. How had he done
so much, so quickly? This lake, for example: there had been no lake here before. This had been a desolate region, inhabited if at all by passing nomadic shepherds. No one had wanted it. No one had
minded when a group of strangers had camped here, fifty years ago. He recalled his late father saying, ‘Let them be. We need a caravan stop out there.’ A caravan stop! If his father
could see it now! The lake alone must be several miles long, and all dug out of the rocky ground at the command of this one man.

‘Sit up straight, Foofy,’ said his wife. ‘Remember you’re the Johanna of Gang, and all these people we’re about to meet are dirt under your feet.’

‘Dirt under my feet. Yes, dear.’

‘You’re not to simper or pick your cuticles or eat with your mouth open. When anyone speaks to you, remember to glower.’

‘Yes, dear.’

‘Show me your glower.’

He glowered.

‘There, now. You look just like your father.’

Zohon, Commander of the Johjan Guards, magnificent in his dress uniform, rode at the head of his men. All three thousand guards were either riding behind him, or marching in
double lines on either side of the procession of royal carriages. He had not asked if this mighty escort would be welcome in the host city. Nothing had been said on the matter. The Johanna had made
no objection, for all Barzan’s efforts in that direction. So Zohon proposed to lead all three thousand men into the heart of the High Domain.

Secretly, as he sat tall in the saddle, and the lakeside came nearer, he expected to be stopped. Should that happen, his plan was to attack at once. A heavy iron battering-ram lay concealed
under one of the carriages, for smashing down the gates. But no one stopped him. No armed force of any kind was to be seen, other than his own men. And across the long causeway ahead, the great
gates were open.

The procession came to a stop at the land end of the causeway. The ceremonial open carriage, as yet unoccupied, was now drawn forward into the lead, and a picked squad of mounted Johjan Guards,
all exactly the same height and colouring, took up their places on either side. The Johanna and the Johdi put on their crowns, which were impressive, but also heavy and uncomfortable. And as
Kestrel watched, the Johdila was dressed at last in her wedding gown.

It was a remarkable creation. The dressmaker insisted that the Johdila wear no underclothing of any kind beneath it, which Sisi found thrilling. Not that the dress revealed any part of her
slender young body: the perfectly-cut white silk sheath covered her from throat to ankles, lying so tight and close to her body that it was almost a second skin. Over her head was drawn a
close-fitting white silk cap, cut to follow the curve of her neck down to her shoulders. Over her face hung a simple square of white gossamer, which fluttered in and out as she breathed. But all
this was no more than the inner part of the creation. Over and around it, over her white-clad head and body, sustained by fine wire supports fixed to her head and shoulders, there floated an entire
body veil made of the lightest silk, so fine that it was almost invisible: more a swirl of mist than a garment. Within this all-enveloping aura her slender silk-skinned body moved like a mystery of
seduction, offering to the entranced eye of the onlooker everything and nothing, charged with the intoxicating promise of beauty.