Gates of Stone

by Angus Macallan

  CHAPTER 37

  Mangku knelt before the Obat Bale and made his obeisance to the Lord of the Islands. Then at Ongkara’s gracious command he rose to his full height and smiled.

  “I have the blade, sire,” he said. “I have the Khodam of the Wukarta.”

  “My felicitations, Hiero! Have much difficulty obtaining it?”

  “Nothing to speak of, sire.”

  “And yet, I expected you back with it more than a week ago. I heard in great detail of the—uh—collection of the Wukarta Kris from the island of Taman and I presumed that your first concern must surely be to bring it to me with the utmost speed.”

  Mangku was taken aback by Ongkara’s words. But, of course, the slippery little frog would have his spies and informants on every one-palm-tree knoll of the Laut Besar.

  “I was not aware that there was a strict schedule, sire—or indeed any urgency at all.”

  “No? No urgency to bring the sacred symbol of the oldest line of rulers in the world to its rightful owner? No urgency to place it in the hands of the Lord of the Islands?”

  “I had some trifling personal matters to attend to, sire. Then I returned with all speed.”

  “So I hear. I gather that you persuaded the late, but not-very-much-lamented Raja Widojo of Sukatan to part with the Dragon’s Eye, saying it was to be a fitting gift to me.”

  Mangku said nothing. His shoulder and face were both paining him, despite having dosed himself with a powerful obat-based medicine on the ship and having slept for nearly two straight days. Was this preposterous despot going to be difficult? Perhaps it was time to take direct charge of what he comically called his mind. So far, their relationship had been fruitful: Ongkara had provided him with a ship and allowed him to recruit a crew of his choice and given him a free hand in the Laut Besar in his self-appointed task to gather the Keys of Power—not that Ongkara knew the truth about that! In exchange, Mangku had destroyed several of his potential rivals for the Obat Bale with his own blood magic and some less-taxing old-fashioned poisons. He had allowed Ongkara to remain on the Obat Bale throne for several years now. Perhaps it was time to show him who was truly master.

  “No need to look so glum, sorcerer. I was merely jesting with you. You may keep the Dragon’s Eye. I have enough baubles. It is a fitting reward for your loyal services. However, I shall trouble you to hand over the Kris of Wukarta Khodam.”

  “As you command, sire,” said Mangku, and he turned and gestured to two of his Sea Serpent shipmates, who had been kneeling respectfully ten paces back, their foreheads pressed to the Audience Hall floor, on either side of a large wooden chest.

  As the men carried the chest forward, and levered it open, Mangku decided that he would allow this little pirate frog to keep control of his mind for the time being. When he insinuated himself into the brain of one of his victims, the hosts rarely lived very long afterward—as had been the case with Widojo—and Mangku preferred, on balance, to keep Ongkara alive, at least for the moment. Finding a replacement Lord of the Islands who was as pliable and stupid would have involved a great deal of work and the sorcerer had his task to accomplish and little time to waste. Later, when the Keys had all been assembled, and the ancient powers invoked, when the doors to the Seven Hells had been opened, this irritating little buffoon could be swiftly dispatched and a suitable replacement found.

  Mangku picked the Kris out of the box and, kneeling before the Dragon of the High Seas once more, he presented the ancient blade, holding it up with both hands. Ongkara growled an angry curse at one of his Jath guards, who had stepped forward to receive it, and hopped off the Obat Bale himself to accept the sword with his own two hands. He drew the pitted blade from its wooden sheath and held it up to the light.

  “Doesn’t look like much, does it?” he said.

  “It is more than a thousand years old, sire. And while it may perhaps show its venerability, it is still the sacred symbol of a royal line. The man who holds the Kris of Wukarta Khodam must be acknowledged as a rightful ruler—whoever he might be.”

  Ongkara glared at the sorcerer from under his brows, irked by this reference to the flimsiness of his claim to the Lordship of the Islands. He knew he was a usurper—his father had been a drudge in the obat orchards of Piri-Piri, whose son had only escaped the same fate by taking to the sea and a life of murder and pillage—but he didn’t care to be reminded of it. One day this tricksy conjurer would go too far and, when his usefulness was at an end . . .

  Ongkara opened his left hand and placed the dull blade against the skin of his palm. Then he thought better of it.

  “You, big-beard.” He beckoned the nearest Jath guard. “Hold out your arm.”

  The man did as he was commanded, and Ongkara sliced the old blade into the thick meat of his forearm. The steel cut through the wool of the Jath’s sleeve with ease and the man jerked in surprise. “Hold still, damn you,” said the Lord of the Islands and, as wetness bloomed through the cloth, he wiped the Kris in the gore and held it up to his face, staring at it intently. The blood glistened on the ancient steel.

  “I thought a touch of blood was supposed to turn it to magical flame,” he said, his disappointment plain.

  “That is merely a myth, sire,” Mangku said. “The true power of the Khodam lies in its possession. You are its possessor. No man now can doubt your right to rule.”

  Ongkara summoned the Jath again and wiped the Kris clean on his other arm.

  “I have taken the liberty of constructing a stand for the Khodam,” said Mangku. “Might I suggest that the blade is displayed, as is traditional, at your right hand in the Audience Hall at all times? The people of Singarasam must see that you possess it.”

  A few moments later, Ongkara was admiring the Kris as it stood proudly upright in a little wooden contraption of struts and slots to the right of the Obat Bale.

  “It does look rather fine, Hiero. You will forgive my earlier churlishness, I trust. And I thank you most warmly for my splendid gift.”

  “I am honored to have made it to you, sire.”

  “You are a good man, Hiero, and a loyal friend. I trust I can count on you in the coming days and weeks? I may have need of your invaluable assistance.”

  “Sire, I am yours to command. But may I ask what is troubling you?”

  “There has been some . . . difficulties . . . with the Celestial Republic. As I’m sure you must have heard. The Permanent Envoy of the Council of Venerables has closed his House and departed from Singarasam, along with all his staff. And there are reports that a powerful fleet of Celestial battleships has been launched from Nankung and is heading south through the Kalima Straits. They mean to make war on me.”

  “May I inquire what has caused this painful rift with our friends in the Republic?”

  “I was tricked, Hiero, tricked by a weaselly liar named Farhan Madani, who is no doubt a secret agent of the Indujah Federation. I gave him my flag and a letter of marque and he has been making mischief all over the Laut Besar, attacking the ships and garrisons of the Celestial Republic and pretending to be acting on my orders.”

  A neat ploy, thought Mangku. And how stupid of this dolt to have fallen for it. So the Federation schemes to play the Republic off against the Lord of the Islands. Very good. And yet I saw the Republic’s Legionnaires moving on the Federation base at Istana Kush not three days ago. Even better.

  War was certainly coming to the Laut Besar, he concluded, massive bloodshed, cities burned, ships destroyed. Very well—but what did that mean for him? Chaos, he had already decided, would make his task easier, if anything. And if Ongkara was to be defeated, killed or exiled? It would be no catastrophe. Inconvenient, yes. But it would not ruin his plans. As long as he could recover the Khodam before Ongkara met his end, what did Mangku care in the years to come who called himself the Lord of the Islands?

  “What utterly outrageous behavior, sire. Th
is Farhan Madani sounds like a monster. He must be punished. And how may I serve you in this matter?”

  “I have summoned the fleet, all the captains from across the Laut Besar. They are all, to a man, entirely loyal to me, of course, but there may be some of the—uh—more awkward captains who may require—uh—some extra persuasion that my cause is just. I would like you to, shall we say, stiffen the resolve of all the chiefs for this war against the Celestial Republic. Remind them all where their loyalties—and their best interests—lie.”

  “Your word is my command, sire. It shall be my pleasure to remind the captains who is the true Lord of the Islands.” Assuming, Mangku thought, it does not interfere with my own quest. Or take up too much of my time. Too many things to do. Kalima is next—and the Mountain of Fire. The fourth Key of Power is almost certainly to be found there.

  “What would I do without you, my faithful Hiero?” said the Lord of the Islands.

  “What would any of us do without you, sire?”

  CHAPTER 38

  The lodgings of the Patriarch of the Temple of Vharkash in Singarasam were modest in comparison to his elevated status, as befitted a humble servant of the great God. And the Patriarch was no stranger to humility. Many years ago, more than he cared to count, Ratna Setiawan had served as a novice in the Mother Temple on Yawa. He had pounded the dirty robes of the more senior devotees in freezing river water, he had risen in the middle of the night to prepare breakfast for the priests, he had swept the courtyards, an endless, tedious task, and rung the bells for prayer, work and mealtimes. It had been brutally hard work and he had suffered more than his fair share of indignities, but he had survived. Indeed, he had prospered. He had risen through the ranks of the priesthood over the years, gaining authority and responsibilities, and had attained the rank of deputy, one of seven men and women who were only second in authority to the High Priest himself.

  That very man—the High Priest, the man who now called himself Semar—sat on the springy bamboo bench before him with three disturbingly odd companions: a huge, scarred savage, a skinny girl with a fresh, star-shaped wound high on her chest, and a languid princeling who appeared to look down his long nose dismissively at everything in sight.

  Ratna remembered vividly the last time he had seen the High Priest. His face had been blackened by soot, his robes had been shredded by the vast explosion of green-and-black fire that had utterly destroyed the Mother Temple, and the little High Priest had been possessed by an incandescent rage so great that it seemed to make his whole body vibrate.

  He had gathered his three surviving deputies and given them their orders. They were to collect all the priests and the novices who were fit enough to travel and quit what was left of the Mother Temple. He told them where to go, and from whom they might find help when they got there. He told them that the Mother Temple was no more and, indeed, it had been completely torn apart, left with scarcely one stone still standing on another.

  The gold-leaf-covered statue of Vharkash, a thousand-year-old marvel twenty feet high and the pride of every soul in the place, had been the epicenter of the blast. It had been vaporized, leaving only a few shreds of blackened wood and twists of tarnished metal. More than a thousand souls—priests, lay-workers, servants, even a few travelers lodging there as guests—had perished in the blast. The High Priest had embraced Ratna, held him tight, and sent him to make his way across the sea to Singarasam, with orders to present himself at the temple there and humbly beg for admittance. The other two deputies, and all the surviving priests, had been similarly dispatched to other refuges right across the Laut Besar.

  Ratna had asked two questions before he set off on his long journey. He asked the High Priest what he intended to do now, and why he could not come with them.

  He could still remember every word of the soot-blackened, furious man’s reply.

  “This place was my life. Now it is destroyed. I will spend the rest of my days seeking the one who is responsible. We all know who that is. I will find him and I will punish him, even if it takes a thousand years. Vharkash is my strength and He will not be slighted. The one who did this thing will feel the full wrath of the Harvester one day. This I swear on my eternal soul. I shall have my vengeance.”

  They did all know who was responsible. And when Ratna heard the High Priest’s words he remembered the shiver of fear that he felt for the one Semar would seek out and punish—the disgraced priest, the outcast holy man, the individual who had dared to dabble in the forbidden arts of blood magic: Hiero Mangku.

  “A little more tea, Your Holiness?” said Ratna, holding up the earthenware pot.

  “Thank you, yes, but you must not call me that. I am plain old Semar these days.”

  Ratna nodded, poured, then raised the pot toward his other three guests in a mute question. None of them bothered to reply although the princeling gave him a condescending smile and a curt shake of his head.

  What seemed like mild discourtesy to the Patriarch was in fact no more than tiredness in his four guests. They had arrived that afternoon in Singarasam after almost twenty-four hours in a small open boat not much bigger than Ketut’s fishing craft.

  On the day of their departure the citizens of Istana Kush had been able to hear the cannon of the Red Fort firing quite clearly and the muffled pops of the Dokra muskets. Word that the Gates of Stone were under attack by land had caused something of a mild panic in the city and the harbor had been crowded with civilians and their families seeking a ship to escape. But the four travelers, unaware of the turmoil in the city, had slept deep and long in their comfortable lodgings in the Governor’s Palace and by the time they were down on the quays, and pushing through the thronging humanity, they were too late. They were repeatedly told that there were no vessels that could take them to Singarasam.

  They had even sought out Captain Lodi and begged him to carry them but he informed them that the Mongoose was beached and careened with the damaged hull being properly repaired by the skilled craftsmen in the Small Harbor. It was only, finally, by the good graces of Governor Bandi himself that they had found even the diminutive craft that was eventually to take them onward. It was, in fact, the Governor’s own single-sailed pleasure craft, crewed by one gnarled Indujah sailor. After an uncomfortable afternoon and night and part of the next day—the boat was really too small to take five people and their baggage on such a long voyage—they had arrived in Singarasam and made their way straight to the Temple of Vharkash.

  “Perhaps you would all like to have some food,” said Ratna. “You must be very hungry. We live very simply here, I am afraid, but I think we can manage some boiled rice and vegetables for you, perhaps even a bowl of spiced lentils, as well.”

  “That would be most kind,” said Semar. “And then if we could trouble you for a place to sleep, that would be even kinder.”

  “Certainly, certainly, the novices will prepare a place for your friends in the dormitory after we have eaten. But you, Your Holi . . . I mean you, Semar, my old friend, must sleep in my bed. I shall be quite comfortable on the bench there. That will give us time to talk, to catch up. It has after all been many, many years since . . .”

  Food was brought, and swiftly eaten and, as the light was dying, the Patriarch got up and went over to a three-pronged candlestick standing in the corner. He did not use flint and tinder to light the candles, nor did he have a taper brought from the fires in the kitchens. He merely chewed his lip, mumbled a few words and blew out a fine mist of his own bloody spittle onto the wicks, which burst into flame, bathing the room in a soft yellow light.

  Semar frowned at his old friend. “Magic, Ratna? Since when does a devotee of Vharkash make use of the dark powers?”

  “Oh, it is not really magic, as such,” said the Patriarch, scratching at the white, tightly curled peppercorns of hair on his head. “That would be quite wrong, of course. This is just a little trick—like a conjuring trick—which I find
convenient for my needs. Not magic at all—though I expect it would have been rather frowned upon in the old days. But, you know, Vharkashta is changing, my old friend, we are not all as hidebound as we once were in Yawa. Here in Singarasam, I have sanctioned the use of small amounts of spiritual power, in cases of healing the sick and for temple displays at the festivals, a few fireworks and so on. We find it helps in recruiting a steady stream of novices to our ranks and with impressing the jaded members of our congregation. Just a few simple tricks, nothing dangerous.”

  “As your guest, it is not my place to bring up matters of doctrine, Ratna, but you know as well as I do that the use of any kind of magic was banned centuries ago.”

  “You are quite right, Semar . . . this is not the time to dispute doctrine. But, as I say, we must move with the times. Vharkashta is not the only faith in Singarasam—you will have heard that the new western religion, that of the Martyr, is gaining converts here. I expect you have come up against it in your travels. A foul creed of self-harm and superstition. We must ensure that we can hold our own against it, and if the price we must pay is a few simple illusions, then I say it is a reasonable one.”

  Semar said nothing. He sat forward on the bench, leaning on his staff. Tenga gave a tremendous yawn, her huge mouth opening and displaying dazzling white teeth and a blood-red interior. That set Jun and Ketut off. Even Semar had to fight to keep his mouth shut.

  “Your friends are tired. Let them be taken off to bed, while you and I shall have another pot of tea and discuss what you have been up to all these many years.”

  The Patriarch rang a little bell and a baby-faced Han novice in a long black robe appeared and bore Jun, Ketut and Tenga away, leaving the two old men alone.

  “So, old friend, what in the name of the great God have you been up to these past fifty years, and what now brings you to Singarasam? Surely, after all this time, you cannot still be following in the tracks of the one who destroyed the Mother Temple?”