Slaves of the Mastery (30 page)

A
s soon as the manaxa ended, the Johdila rose, and accompanied only by her young servant, left the arena. Zohon, still elated by the fight, was
caught by surprise.

‘Where is the Johdila going?’ he demanded.

Hasty enquiries revealed that the Johdila had retired to a side room to prepare her clothing for her dance.

In the side room, Sisi was tearing off her wedding dress as fast as she could, as she and Kestrel exchanged clothing. The emotions roused in Sisi by the manaxa, added to nervousness over the
coming deception, made her hands shake as she hooked Kestrel into the tight dress.

‘Oh, Kess! What if they find out?’

‘They won’t.’

‘You’re trembling too. I can feel you.’

‘That’s because of the fight.’ She shuddered.

‘Did you hate it, darling? I hated it so much it made me go hot and shake all over.’

‘I didn’t hate it,’ said Kestrel in a low voice. ‘I should have done, but I didn’t.’

‘Didn’t you? Oh, Kess, do friends tell each other what they really feel?’

‘They do if they want.’

Sisi whispered. ‘I felt excited.’

‘So did I.’

‘Did you? Oh, thank you, Kess darling! Sometimes I think I’m so bad I shouldn’t be allowed to go on living. There – now the cap.’

Kestrel drew the cap over her head, and lowered the veil in silence. She was gripped by a new fear. What if Zohon made his move now, while she was dancing the tantaraza?

She looked up at Sisi and saw tears in her eyes.

‘What will happen, Kess? Something strange and terrible is coming. Don’t you feel it?’

‘Yes,’ said Kestrel. ‘We must be brave.’

While the ladies were preparing for the dance, Ortiz found himself suffering an almost unbearable restlessness. The manaxa had stirred his blood to such a degree that he was ready for anything,
however unthinkable the consequences. He knew that after the dance came the exchange of vows, and then it would be too late. Somehow, he must speak to the unknown lady now.

He beckoned to Bowman. Speaking low, so that only he could hear, he pointed towards the private room to which the Johdila had retired.

‘You see where they went? Her servant went with her.’

‘Yes.’

‘Go and find her. Tell her I must speak to her.’

‘How? Where?’

‘There’s a passage over there. It leads to a garden. I’ll go there directly after the dance. Have her wait for me there.’

Bowman did as he was told, glad enough to have this unlooked-for chance to talk to Kestrel alone. He made his way unobtrusively round the back of the raised arena, towards the private room. As
he did so, Kestrel, wearing the wedding dress and the face veil, but not the outer body veil, came out of the room and entered the arena from the front. She never saw Bowman, nor did he see her.
She didn’t notice that Bowman was gone, because she was shivering with nervous anticipation. For all the danger of what she was doing, Kestrel felt a sudden surge of excitement. She had
learned to love the tantaraza.

She looked up at Zohon as she entered. He stood at the back, where he had stood from the start, staring proudly down on the arena stage. Quietly, she pressed her hands together, and interclasped
the fingers. He stiffened, and gave a very slight nod. He had seen. She then made a second gesture with her hands, stroking the air before her with downward strokes, to indicate, slowly, slowly,
not yet. She hoped he understood.

The dancing master, Lazarim, who had watched the manaxa with an admiration that had turned to awe, now realised that the great tantaraza was to be danced on the blood-soaked sand of the arena.
He had forgotten that he was party to a high-risk deception, and that it would not be the Johdila in the arms of the bridegroom. Only now, as he saw the slender white-clad figure return to the
arena, did he realise that this must be the Johdila’s young servant. As he turned to watch the bridegroom, an icy sweat of fear broke out on his brow.

Marius Semeon Ortiz did not spot the deception. His mind was elsewhere: in the room where Bowman was even now, he supposed, speaking to the lady with the dark eyes. But here and now, in the
arena, his bride was before him, and he must bow, and offer her his hand. Together they stepped up onto the platform, and presented themselves first to the Johanna, then to the Master in the
gallery above. Ortiz caught the eyes of his dance teacher, Madame Saez, who was staring at him sternly, warning him to concentrate on the coming dance. She was right: the tantaraza was not easy. He
wondered whether the Johdila would be any good at it. He supposed not.

Their respects to others paid, he now held out his right hand, and aligned his body. His partner took his hand with a firm grasp, pivoting on the balls of her feet to adopt the correct opening
position. Ortiz was agreeably surprised. She moved well. Perhaps the dance would be a pleasure after all.

Up in the gallery, the Master raised his violin to his shoulder, and started to play. The musicians below joined in: not a mere pipe and drum, but sixteen instruments, all in the hands of
experts. Lazarim, standing at the back among the servants, forgot his terrors, as with all his will he reached out to his young pupil, saying in silence, fly like a bird! Fly away, child! Fly
away!

The musical introduction ended, and the dance itself began. Ortiz moved to the left: step, step, step. She was with him. To the right: step, step, step. And the salute. Perfect! No attempt at
grand gestures, just the correct move, pure and unadorned. And now, with the sudden sweep of the music, round into the spins, round! Round! Round! And stop! She was there! What an arrest! Madame
Saez saw it, Lazarim saw it, Ortiz felt it thrill through his body. She could dance! Hands out, heels and toes clicking, they came in for the re-join, and as he took her in his arms he sensed her
joy in the dance, and all other thoughts, all other hopes and fears left him. This was the tantaraza, the dance of love, and he was in love, and he would dance as he had never danced before. Round
and round they swirled, lost in the rhythms of the music, their flying feet barely touching the blood-soaked sand.

Now that all eyes were on the dancers, Bowman approached the door to the side room, and quietly opened it. There was a young woman sitting at the far end with her back to him. She wore the
clothes Kestrel had been wearing, and she was looking out of a window at a small garden beyond. Her head was bowed, her face was in her hands, and she was crying. But he knew at once that she was
not his sister.

He was about to turn and leave, when the young woman turned her tear-stained face, and seeing Bowman, uttered a low cry of joy.

‘Bowman!’

Bowman was too astonished to move. The weeping lady dabbed at her eyes and looked at him in a strange intent way.

‘You are Bowman, aren’t you? Kess has told me all about you.’

‘Who are you?’ How could she look at him as if they were intimate, when he had never seen her in his life before?

Sisi realised that he hadn’t worked out the exchange she had made with Kestrel. He had no idea she was the Johdila Sirharasi of Gang. After all, she was wearing the dress of a servant.

‘I’m called Sisi,’ she said. ‘I’m one of the Johdila’s servants. Like Kestrel.’

‘Where is Kestrel?’

‘She went out earlier. The Johdila likes to have her by her side all the time. They’re friends, you see.’

Sisi found saying all this quite delightful. But Bowman was already turning to leave.

‘I have to find her.’

‘Not yet!’ cried Sisi. ‘She doesn’t want anyone to know about you. You’re her secret.’

‘But she told you.’

‘That’s because we’re such close friends. Come, sit down. Wait till the dance is over.’

Reluctantly, Bowman sat down. There seemed to be nothing else he could do. He was still bewildered. How had Kestrel left without him seeing her?

‘I know all about you,’ said Sisi, watching him intently. ‘Kess was going to arrange for us to meet, and now we have.’

She smiled radiantly.

‘Do you think I’m beautiful?’

Bowman blushed.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, hardly aware of what he was saying. ‘I’ve never met you before.’

‘What difference does that make? You have only to look.’

‘No, it does make a difference.’

‘Does it?’ She looked disconcerted. ‘How long do you need? You can look as much as you like. I won’t let them put your eyes out.’

‘Who?’

‘Oh, anybody.’ Sisi covered her mistake as best as she could. ‘Go on looking. Are you getting to like me?’

‘What an odd person you are.’

‘Odd, but beautiful. Go on, admit it.’

‘Yes. You are beautiful.’

‘Hurrah!’ Sisi clapped her hands with joy. ‘That means you love me!’

‘No, it doesn’t.’

‘Of course it does. Everyone knows that. Men always love beautiful women. Are you a tiny bit stupid?’

Bowman looked at her, and for the first time made the effort of reaching inside her mind. He found a confusion of childish fears, and a simple longing for affection.

‘Why were you crying?’ he asked more gently.

‘I don’t want to be –’ She was about to say ‘married’, but stopped herself just in time. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

‘May I give you some advice?’

‘Yes. Please.’

‘Leave. There’s going to be trouble here.’

‘Oh, yes. I know.’

‘Tell your mistress. Ortiz won’t marry her. It would be better for you all to go home.’

‘He won’t?’ She stared at Bowman, greatly astonished. ‘Are you sure?’

‘He’s in love with someone else.’

‘You mean I won’t have to – with who? Who’s he fallen in love with?’

‘With Kestrel. With my sister.’

Sisi stared and stared. How was it possible that a man who had the chance of marrying her could prefer a funny-looking person like Kestrel? She felt no jealousy, only bewilderment. Then
–

‘Of course! The veil! He’s never seen – her. Or me. I expect if he saw me, he’d fall in love with me. Don’t you think so?’

‘Yes. I expect so.’ Bowman smiled. Sisi was lovely, but she was absurd. ‘Now I’m going to go.’

‘All right. Go if you must. But you’ll find out you do love me in the end, you just wait and see.’

‘If I do, I’ll let you know.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

Bowman slipped out, and returned unnoticed to his place at the back of the arena: unnoticed because every eye, every heart, was captured by the dance. Ortiz and Kestrel, like
birds on the wind, were carried by the pulsing sweeping melody, round and back, falling into each other’s arms and allowing themselves to be tossed away again, like the very soul of yearning
fickle love itself. Bowman watched, and knew at once that it was his sister out there on the sand. Lazarim was following every move with miniature echoing moves of his own small body, and without
realising it, his mouth was uttering low cooing sounds of ecstasy. The Johanna was so absorbed that he forgot the discomfort of his crown, and tipped his head this way and that as the dancers
flashed before him. Madame Saez watched in complete rigidity, her body straining, her mouth open, frozen in anticipation of each unfolding beat. And as for the dancers themselves, they were
possessed. Ortiz no longer thought of the sequences of steps, or of guiding and leading his partner. Neither of them led. They flew together, in the only way possible, the way the music commanded
and their bodies desired – away, away, and round, reaching, not yet touching, and away! And back! Spinning into each other’s arms – ah, so lightly, barely brushing as they met,
before passing and leaping, down on one foot, the spin! The return! The clasp!

Kestrel danced as if after this dance her life would end: as if nothing and no one existed but this man, this music, this small spinning stage. He was her enemy, the man she must destroy, and he
was her partner, her lover, herself: for as long as the dance lasted, they were two bodies become one.

She felt his strong arms around her as she fell back, confident that he would not let her fall; and felt his beating heart as she rose again, her breast pressed to his chest. She spread her arms
wide and he lifted her, and as she dropped to the ground, feeling almost weightless, the broken drumbeat began again, that sound of startled birds crackling up out of bracken,
clacka-clacka-killacka-clack
, and together, within the same heartbeat, they exploded into free flight. One mind, one song, two bodies in motion: precise poise and total abandon, melting
together in a dance that was one long unfolding embrace. In this state of grace, Kestrel knew there were no rules, no limits, her body could do anything, because everything it did was beautiful and
necessary and right. She danced like one who falls from an unthinkably great height: to fall truly she need do nothing, except not resist. And so, smiling, glowing, lovely, she fell towards the
climax.

The pipes and the fiddles came surging back, to tell the raptured dancers that the final phase had begun. Without conscious thought, both slipped into the arise, parting, hands raised, meeting
for the merest fingertip touch, parting again, in an accelerating rhythm. With each retouch they came closer together, though by no more than an inch, and held their touching hands higher; with
each parting they spun farther away from each other. So that as the music began to hammer towards its climax, they were hurtling away and throwing themselves back, into an almost-embrace, closer,
closer, arms higher, higher, and on the long high call of the pipes, arms up high above their heads, face to face, breast to breast, they turned slowly, still not touching, the spectators hardly
daring to breathe, famished for the promised embrace, until the music released them at last, and they fell into each other’s arms.

Silence. The Master lowered his violin. Then a great sigh arose from all over the arena. Then the applause. Not the crazed screams that followed the manaxa, but the deep steady satisfaction that
greets a true ending. Only Zohon stood, still as a statue, and silent.

‘That,’ murmured Lazarim, weeping, ‘that is the tantaraza!’