Slaves of the Mastery (8 page)

The dancing tent was erected by the roadside, and the dancing master, Lazarim, approached the Johdila’s carriage and tapped respectfully on the door. The Johdila then emerged, swathed from
top to toe in layers of blue and silver silk, so fine that they floated about her mysterious form like smoke. Kestrel went with her, in her role as servant and unofficial friend. Lazarim escorted
them to the dancing tent, which though windowless was open to the noonday sky. And there, to the music of a blindfolded piper and drummer, he taught the Johdila the dance called the tantaraza.

Kestrel could see at once that Sisi was not a natural dancer. The tantaraza was a difficult dance. It required concentrated attention to memorise the intricate sequences of steps; and then
conscientious practice, to turn the mechanical copying of the step-sequences into the fluid rhythms of the dance. Sisi had never been required to give concentrated attention to anything in her
life; and as for practice, if she found she couldn’t do something the first time, she became bored and gave up.

Lazarim longed with a fierce and terrible longing to smack her bottom. He longed to pinch her until she screamed, or wept, or made any sound at all, other than that languid monotonous whine.

‘Do I ha-ave to? I feel so-o tired this morning. Be a darling pixie, and don’t bore me too-oo much.’

‘But you must learn the dance, radiance. It is your father’s wish that you marry, and to be married, you must dance.’

‘Yes, I know, darling. Don’t bully me. But I don’t have to dance much, surely? Just the once is enough, isn’t it?’

‘Just the once is enough, my lady, but that once must be perfect. The lords and ladies of the Mastery must say, nowhere in the world is there beauty and grace to match the Johdila of
Gang.’

‘But that would be true, darling Lazarim, whether I danced or not.’

‘If it is your wish not to dance, my lady, I say no more. But if you wish to dance, you must dance well.’

‘Oh, well. I suppose we could go over a few steps. But you’re not to muddle me.’

While Kestrel sat quietly and watched with growing interest, Lazarim took the Johdila through the opening sequence again: the sidesteps, the salute, the three spins away, the arrest, the
heel-toe drumbeat of the re-join, the clasp, and the swirl. The tantaraza was a sublime dance, the dance of dances, to Lazarim it was art and passion, love and religion, life and death. This tiny
but exquisite man was a true master of its mysteries, and with all his being he longed to be released from the torture of teaching, and to fly away into the ecstasy of the dance. Instead, here he
was, hobbling through the steps like a cripple.

‘No, radiance, no! The spins are fast, very fast, like a spinning top, remember? Then the arrest is sudden! Like this! See how my skirts fly away without me?’

‘Your skirts, Lazarim?’ She tinkled a little laugh. ‘You mustn’t make me smile, pixie. Every smile leaves a line.’

‘Once more, please.’

When the dancing lesson was over, Kestrel accompanied Sisi to lunch with her father and mother in the royal carriage.

‘You are lucky not to have to dance, Kess.’

‘I thought it looked like fun.’

‘Fun? Why do you say that? It’s difficult, and annoying, and not fun at all.’

The royal carriage was guarded by Johjan Guards. On this occasion, as they approached its canopied steps, Kestrel saw that Zohon, their commander, was standing with his men. He looked round, and
for a brief moment his eyes met hers. He gave her a look that said, we understand each other. Then his gaze rested for a moment on the veiled Johdila. Then he said something to one of his men,
clapped him on the shoulder with a loud and careless laugh, and turned and sauntered away. That over-loud laugh, that over-carefree swagger, told Kestrel much. A man so intent on showing his lack
of interest must be very interested indeed.

They entered the royal carriage. Lunch was already on the table, and the Johanna was eager to begin. No attention was paid to Kestrel. The Johanna and his wife disapproved of her, both because
they thought she looked odd, and because they felt it was unbecoming for a princess to have a friend. They had made their views known to their daughter. Sisi had replied sharply,

‘Kestrel is my friend, and she goes where I go.’

As a compromise, when in the royal carriage Kestrel did not eat at the main table, but at a little table of her own. This suited her very well, because she found that quite quickly everyone
forgot about her, and talked as if she wasn’t there.

‘How is my precious one today?’ said the Johanna, removing his daughter’s veil and looking proudly on her face.

‘Oh, papa,’ sighed Sisi. ‘I wish we were home.’

The Johanna sighed too. He hated travel in all its forms. He too wanted to be back in his own city of Obagang, in his palace, with his dogs and his horses, sleeping at night in his
familiar-smelling big old bed.

‘It must be done, precious one.’

In a melancholy frame of mind, he settled down to eat his pie.

‘I don’t understand why you have to do anything, papa, unless you want to.’

‘Eat up, Sisi,’ said her mother. ‘You’re looking a little peaky.’

‘It’s my duty to my people,’ the Johanna began; and then stopped, to take another mouthful. Also, it wasn’t easy to explain. The faraway land called the Mastery was just
one among many satellite nations that orbited the great sun of Gang; but somehow, like an ageing giant, mighty Gang had grown weaker as the Mastery had grown stronger, and its ruler, the Master,
was now annexing land that had long owed allegiance to Gang.

There came a knock at the outer door. The Johanna frowned, and signed to his daughter to replace her veil.

‘Enter!’

The Grand Vizier entered, and bowed. Grand Vizier Barzan was the only one of his subjects who would dare to intrude on a meal. His intrusions were frequent, always urgent, always accompanied by
warnings of catastrophe, and always delivered in low respectful tones, as if from beyond the tomb.

‘Our hopes are scattered to the winds, mightiness,’ he intoned. ‘The caravan master reports that he has completed his calculations. At our present rate of progress, we will
arrive a full month late.’

‘A month late! We can’t arrive a month late. It will be taken as an insult. Whose fault is it? Someone must be punished.’

‘Naturally, mightiness. I will see to it myself. In the meantime, in view of the problem, might we consider not stopping the caravan for the dancing lesson before lunch, or for lunch
itself, or for the rest after lunch, or for dinner?’

‘You’re right, Barzan. We must press on.’

‘We must stop for my rest,’ objected the Johdi. ‘I can’t rest in a moving carriage.’

‘No, my dear. Of course not.’

‘And you know if you eat while travelling, your stomach gets upset.’

‘No, no, we must stop for meals. The dancing lesson, then. We must not stop for the dancing lesson.’

‘The Johdila is to dance in a moving carriage, greatness?’

‘Ah.’

‘The dancing lessons must continue, sire. This marriage is all that stands between us and war. And if there is war –’

‘Yes, yes,’ said the Johanna, getting flustered. ‘So what are we to do?’

The Grand Vizier sighed.

‘The escort, mightiness –’

‘I won’t have you send my guard away, Barzan. You’re only saying it to spite Zohon, you know. I won’t arrive in a foreign city with a few house-servants. I won’t
shame my ancestors.’

‘But mightiness, three thousand men, all heavily armed, most of them marching on foot – no wonder we travel too slowly.’

‘The Johanna of Gang is always escorted by his Johjan Guards. It’s traditional. No, Barzan, that’s not the answer. We are travelling too slowly. Seek out who is responsible.
Punish them. That is the answer.’

‘As you wish, sire.’

The Grand Vizier bowed gloomily, and withdrew.

‘I do wish Barzan and Zohon would stop this squabbling,’ complained the Johanna. ‘They’re as jealous of each other as a pair of schoolgirls.’

‘Papa,’ said Sisi, lifting her veil, ‘why will my marriage stop there being war?’

‘I’ve told you, precious one. Once you marry, your husband becomes our son and heir. His father can’t make war on us if his own son and heir is our son and heir.’

‘But doesn’t that mean he gets everything he wants without the trouble of a war?’

The Johanna gazed at his daughter for a long thoughtful moment.

‘These are matters of state, Sisi. You wouldn’t understand.’

Kestrel, listening to these exchanges unnoticed at her little table, gained more information to add to her growing store. Out of such overheard fragments, out of observations and guesses, she
was beginning to make a plan. At the heart of her plan was the Commander of the Johjan Guards.

S
isi and her parents always rested after lunch. Kestrel took this opportunity to walk down the entire length of the caravan. For a while she
counted the carriages and wagons she passed, but there were too many, and after the fortieth vehicle she gave up counting. Apart from the grand gilded carriages of the royal court, there were plain
carriages for officials, and plainer ones still for upper servants. There were carriages with chimneys for the cooks, and carriages with arrow slits for the soldiers. There were the
quartermaster’s wagons, and feed wagons for the horses, and tent wagons, and bedroll wagons, and more and more, to carry the necessaries of this great moving town. Near the rear of the line
she came upon the tethered horses of the Johjan Guards, and beyond the horses, in the shade of a line of trees, the mess tables where the men were to eat. On the far side of the trees the entire
force, almost three thousand men, were formed up in long regular lines, doing their daily exercises.

Kestrel came to a stop, concealed from their view by the quietly-grazing horses, and watched. It was an impressive sight. The men were naked but for their tight black under-britches. They were
all tall, powerfully-built, and bronzed by the sun. They all wore their hair drawn back tight over the head, and knotted in a small roll on the back of the neck. They moved together, in perfect
time, the long ranks of men dropping to the ground and springing into the air, dropping and springing up, seemingly without effort, but for the glisten of sweat on their shapely torsos.

At their head, facing them, as naked as his men, but even taller and more magnificently-muscled, stood Zohon, their youthful leader. He issued no commands. He moved, and like a reflection in a
thousand mirrors, his men moved with him. He was still, and they were still. Kestrel, watching, knew that so perfectly-disciplined a force of fighting men were more than equal to the raiding
parties of the Mastery.

As the sequence of exercises came to an end, she was about to show herself, to speak to Zohon, when she saw Barzan approaching from the farther side. To the fury of the Grand Vizier, the
sentries insisted on searching him for concealed weapons.

‘Really, Commander,’ he objected. ‘If I wanted to assassinate you, I could do it without coming anywhere near your guards.’

Zohon stood magnificently still, his great chest rising and falling, his eyes fixed on Barzan with total concentration.

‘Show me how.’

‘Well – for example, with a bow and arrow.’

‘And where would you stand, to take aim?’

Barzan looked round. He hadn’t intended to go into so much detail.

‘Well – there, between the carriages.’

Zohon smiled, and clapped his hands. From all round, from behind the carriages, from the branches of the trees, from concealment in the long grass, appeared hidden guards. Fortunately for
Kestrel, they all looked to their commander; and so she remained unnoticed.

‘You would be dead, my friend,’ said Zohon, ‘before you could set an arrow to your bow.’

Barzan drew a long breath, to control a rising wave of irritation.

‘Exactly who, Commander, do you expect to attack you, here, in your own country, surrounded by your own men?’

‘That is the difference between you and me, my friend. You do not believe there will be an attack until it happens. Then you believe it. But then you are dead. I believe the attack will
come before it comes. I believe it before there is any threat of an attack. I believe it most of all when there is no reason whatsoever for an attack. That is why I am still alive.’

‘Yes, but so am I.’

‘Ah, my friend. Be very careful.’ He smiled, and gestured to his batman to come forward with the water bucket. Taking it from him in one hand, he emptied it over his own head,
splashing the Grand Vizier in the process. His batman then handed him a rough towel, and he rubbed himself down.

Barzan brushed water droplets off his gold robe with impatience.

‘I understand you wished to speak to me, Commander. I’m extremely busy.’

‘Too busy to ensure the safety of the Johanna? I think not.’

‘The Johanna is perfectly safe.’

‘Now, yes. But then?’

‘When? What are you talking about?’

‘This city,’ said Zohon with maddening calm, ‘this famous Mastery’s famous High Domain. I am told it has only the one entrance.’

‘What of it?’

‘What else has only one entrance?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘A trap!’ said Zohon. ‘Once we are lured into this city with only one entrance, they have only to close the gates, and we are trapped!’

The Grand Vizier passed a hand across his brow.

‘Why should anyone want to trap us?’

‘To force the Johanna to hand over all his power.’

‘Commander, the Johanna is giving his only daughter in marriage to the only son of the ruler of this city you fear to enter. What possible reason could that ruler have for using force to
gain what is being freely given?’

‘To the true ruler,’ said Zohon, drawing on the jacket of his magnificent uniform, ‘the use of force is an end in itself. I insist that if the royal party enters this city that
has no exit, the Johjan Guards accompany the Johanna at full strength.’

‘At full strength! Three thousand armed men at a wedding! Impossible!’