“O Gods . . .” said Farhan.
“Do I take that to mean that you accept this mission, Colonel Madani?”
“And the money: if I do this, you will pay me the money you owe?”
“The instant you return, Farhan dear,” said Mamaji, her smile suddenly returning.
CHAPTER 40
Katerina stood on the parapet of the east wall of the Red Fort and felt the sea breeze caress her bare arms and face, chilling the wet hair that was loosely tied at her neck. She had bathed and changed and eaten a little from the fort’s stores—she had even slept for a couple of hours, not nearly long enough, but nonetheless she felt like a new woman. The prospect of victory would do that, she supposed. To her left, across the narrow stretch of water, the Green Fort was a smoldering ruin, her Ostraka gunners, even half-stupefied with obat, had made short work of it—a dozen accurate salvos had smashed the defenses and sent the handful of troops inside fleeing into the safety of the Manchatka jungle. Then the Ostrakans, giggling with childlike delight, had wheeled four of the Red Fort’s guns to this eastern wall and opened fire on the five harbor batteries.
The sensation when she saw the Yotun sailing proudly in from the west through the Sumbu Straits had been one of the most intense of her entire young life. And her powerful flagship had been shortly followed through the Gates of Stone by Egil and Sar. All three were in position within a quarter of an hour and adding their considerable weight in screeching red-hot metal to the destruction of the harbor defenses. It had not taken more than an hour to reduce all the five batteries to rubble. Now, as the sun began to sink behind her, the last boatloads of Legionnaires were disembarking on the deserted harbor front.
The populace of Istana Kush had largely gone or were still fleeing, hundreds, even thousands swarming out from their homes and places of work, clogging the roads and market squares, many making for the Small Harbor beyond the Governor’s Palace to beg for a place on one of the few remaining ships, but others were simply running south into the farmlands or farther into the foothills of the Barat Cordillera, there to take refuge until the fighting was over. Some were already afloat and small boats packed with people choked the Strait below her. Her three warships, all moored in a line across the Strait, their guns now silent, were ignoring the fleeing civilians, as she had ordered them to do. Let them run. The final assault would go easier if her Legionnaires were not troubled by citizens vainly trying to protect their stores and warehouses. Let them go, let them all go: they would be back in time when the Gates of Stone were wholly hers. Istana Kush was their home: a change of master would not make any difference to their lives. The brothel-keepers and owners of the marak taverns, the bread bakers, rice sellers and vegetable stall holders, the cobblers, cutlers and tailors, even the priests of the many local religions, would not lack paying customers, when the smoke had cleared and bodies had been carted away.
But there was one final act to come: the Governor’s Palace on the far side of the city was still held against her and must be taken. Many of the Dokra from the forts and Honorable Artillerymen from the harbor batteries, as well as most of the garrison of Istana Kush itself, had fled into the palace, pulling up the ancient wooden drawbridge and defying her from the high walls. She estimated that at least five hundred fighting men were now inside this last redoubt.
It was a formidable fortress, yes, and strongly manned—but it would surely fall to her big guns and her brave men. Tomorrow, at first light, her three warships would close in and their cannon would open up a brutal barrage on the northern wall, smashing a large hole, or several large holes in it, through which her eight fresh Legionary companies—eight hundred elite fighting men—would then storm. That would be it. Istana Kush would be hers at last.
In the hours that followed the fall of the Red Fort, Katerina had sent a message under a flag of truce into the Governor’s Palace. It promised just and merciful treatment for any who would immediately lay down their arms and quit the fortress. If she was forced to storm the palace, the message said, after the attendant bloodshed and loss of life, there could be no mercy for those inside when the palace finally fell. Her formal letter had been answered by a scrawled note that thanked her for her concern and said that, in fact, the defenders were quite pleased to stay where they were at present. It had been signed almost indecipherably by someone whose name appeared to be Mummy.
She watched from the east wall of the Red Fort with the sun sinking behind her back as the efficient Legionnaires quickly surrounded the palace, digging themselves in among the smoldering rubble of the city, just out of musket range and bowshot. Colonel Wang was down there somewhere organizing the dispersal of his troops. He had strongly advised against a night bombardment and an attack on the walls in the darkness. Chaotic, he said. Very risky. Tomorrow, the ships’ long guns would be brought into play, the walls would be swiftly breached, and the bloody business could begin.
She knew that she could not spend too long on this final assault. Word of the attack on Istana Kush would have echoed around the Laut Besar and there were powerful ships and soldiers of the Federation scattered about the seas who would be coming as fast as they could. She needed time to repair the harbor defenses and garrison and rearm the Red and Green Forts and she could not do that while her enemies were taking potshots at her men from the palace walls. But tomorrow the business would be done. Tomorrow it all would be over. And that would give her just enough time to prepare for the Federation’s response.
She summoned Ari with a crooked finger. “I will see the prisoner now.”
* * *
• • •
The prisoner, a junior Dokra officer, had been beaten unnecessarily harshly by the Storm Company, his captors, who were still angry at the cruel losses they had endured outside the walls of the Red Fort. Now Sublieutenant Rohit lay quite still in a blood-sodden heap in one of the cells below the north wall of the Red Fort.
Katerina looked down at the body coldly.
She turned to Major Chan, who looked back mournfully at her from his watery eyes, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His left arm was in a sling and a little spot of blood was even now seeping through the crisp white linen.
“Is he even still alive?” she said.
“He is. You want me to rouse him?” He walked over and kicked the wretch.
“That might not be necessary. Did you get a list from him?”
“Yes, Highness. It’s on the table there. He wrote it all down while he still had most of his fingernails. As you requested, it is a list of all the Governor’s staff and the senior Federation officers in Istana Kush. We think most of them are inside the palace now, although it will take some time to sort out the identities of all the dead and wounded.”
“Do we know who this Mummy person is?” she asked as she scanned the list of names on the blood-splotched paper.
“She is the personal envoy of General Hamil Vakul of the Indujah Federation. A high-ranking member of their spy organization, the Amrit Shakti. She calls herself Mamaji.”
“Does she indeed? How charmingly eccentric.”
Katerina’s eyes were still fixed on the list of names.
“This will do very well, thank you, Chan.” Katerina was smiling. She tapped one name with her small white finger. “Yes, this will do very well indeed.”
She looked at the Legion officer and inclined her head toward the motionless prisoner. “Tell me, Major—what is that poor fellow’s story? Had he been posted here long?”
“He says he arrived back in Istana only yesterday morning, after a voyage down to Yawa. He had some extraordinary tales to tell of fighting off five Celestial cruisers, and of white-painted cannibals and ghostly tigers, mostly nonsense of course. But we kept at him until he told the truth, at least as he sees it. I do not think we were betrayed, Highness. The Governor received word from a traveler in the Pengut Delta, a man who climbed Mount Barat and
saw us coming, purely by chance. They knew we were advancing on the Red Fort from the south. This fellow and his Dokra company, along with another, and an extra platoon of the Honorable Artillery Company were posted here, with orders to expect an attack by us.”
“Just bad luck, then. Something nobody can plan for. But luck can sometimes flow both ways.” She smiled again, looking at the bloodstained list in her hands.
“Yes, Highness. What do you wish me to do with him? I do not think he has any more to tell us.”
“Oh, he has told me enough. Thank you, Xi Chan. You’ve done well. Have him disposed of—quietly. However, from now on, there is to be no more mistreatment of the captured Dokra, do you understand me? No beatings, no interrogations. I want them decently fed and watered, their wounds tended to. I want them treated honorably, with kindness even. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Highness.”
“And I have a commission for you, Major Chan. These prisoners are mercenaries, yes? I want you to ask among the captives if any would be willing to serve me after the fall of Istana Kush—don’t threaten them. Offer double pay and a signing bonus of, shall we say, ten ringgu, to any man who accepts—and that goes for any civilians, seamen or travelers in Istana who have military experience. I want you to form an entirely new unit, Major Chan. Let us call it, hmmm, the Istana Volunteers. I want you to form it, train it and ultimately command it in battle. How does that sound, Major? Or should I say Colonel Chan?”
“Highness, I belong to the 42nd. I can’t just . . .”
“I will speak to Colonel Wang about seconding you to the Istana Volunteers. I’m sure he will entirely understand. You are relieved of Legion duties from this moment. Your surviving captain can take over, and promote some of the experienced lieutenants and sergeants while you are at it. I know there are many of them who more than deserve it.”
Major Chan stared at her. “I beg you to reconsider, Highness. I do not wish to leave the Legion, not ever. My family is rich—they have connections and interests all over the world and I could have had a career as a merchant or banker or shipmaster or anything I chose. I chose the Legions, Highness. Joining the 42nd was the proudest moment of my life.”
Katerina looked at the officer. He looked as if she had just ordered him to shoot his own mother in the face. Yet she also knew that he would surely obey her if she forced the issue. She reflected that there was a great deal she still had to learn about soldiers.
“I will make this bargain with you, Xi Chan; and I always keep my bargains. If you will give me one year as Colonel of the Istana Volunteers; if you will recruit them, train them, get them into something resembling the fighting order of a Celestial Legion, then I will allow you to return—if you choose—to the 42nd at the end of the allotted time and I will select another commander for the Volunteers. And I will make sure that Colonel Wang understands and is party to our agreement. Will you do it? Please, for me?”
“As you wish, Highness.”
CHAPTER 41
For a day and a night and half another day they kicked their heels in the Patriarch’s quarters of the Temple of Vharkash—resting, eating the monks’ bland but plentiful food, exercising or just sleeping—while Ratna Setiawan made his inquiries. On the afternoon of the second day, Semar called them all to the Patriarch’s chamber where the old man, dressed in shining white robes, which contrasted beautifully with his rich, teak-colored skin, was waiting for them with a beaming smile of triumph.
“I have news for you, my friends,” he said, ushering them to the springy bamboo bench. “The Kris of Wukarta Khodam is indeed here in Singarasam. It is in the First House, not five hundred paces from where we are now. The Lord of the Islands has received it as a gift from the sorcerer Mangku and it stands proudly on the right-hand side of the Obat Bale in the Audience Hall on the first floor of the House. The King of Singarasam has been displaying it to all who visit him, and boasting long and loud of its power and lineage and the legitimacy he believes it brings to his rule.”
Jun felt a glow in his belly at the thought of the proximity of the Kris of his ancestors. He imagined once more bringing it home to Taman in triumph, the cheering crowds, the songs of praise, the adulation of all the men and women of his homeland. Pretty young girls sobbing with hysterical joy to see him safely home again. It was a delightful thought.
“What is this First House?” he asked.
“It is the residence of the Lord of the Islands, the first proper brick-and-timber dwelling built here in Singarasam, when it was merely a swampy island and nest of local pirates and headhunters.” Ratna seemed immensely proud of the fact. “It was built by the original Han merchants who discovered that obat trees could be farmed in these waters and it has been the locus of power in Singarasam, indeed in the whole Laut Besar, ever since.”
“Is it well guarded?” Jun asked.
“It is a house,” said Ratna, “but a large one and guarded by sixty scimitar-men of the Jath tribe of Manchatka, who have protected Lords of the Islands since time immemorial.”
Jun’s heart sank at the thought. He was no coward—he believed he had demonstrated that to his own and everyone else’s satisfaction—but neither did he relish taking on threescore scimitar-wielding bodyguards, even if it was to retrieve his sacred family heirloom.
“But let us set that problem aside for the moment,” Ratna continued jovially. “Today, as I am sure you know, is the Hallowed Day. All the faithful men and women of Singarasam will be celebrating in the temple here and we would be most proud to welcome you to the ceremony as our honored guests. I understand the little lady might find that congenial?”
He smiled indulgently at Ketut, who stared stonily back at him.
“After the ceremony, I have arranged for us to meet a few prominent members of my flock—a little celebratory gathering—some of these are influential people, with excellent connections throughout the Laut Besar. I’m sure they’ll be able to help you in your quest.”
Could it really be Hallowed Day so soon? Jun wondered. Had it really only been one month since he had seen Ketut reveal herself as a Vessel? So much had happened since then—the Konda Pali mines, the hellish chase through the jungle, the bloody fight at the Temple of Burunya, the Ghost Tigers, the voyage to Istana Kush and onward here to Singarasam. But when he counted the days in his head, he found that it was indeed true.
The Patriarch bustled away to prepare for the ceremony and Jun saw that Semar and Ketut were once again sitting opposite each other on the bamboo bench, Semar with his hand flat on Ketut’s chest, both with their eyes closed. They were doing that silent thing that Jun now recognized as a communion of sorts, a lesson in spirituality. He heard Semar say, “Take control, my child; remember, you must loose your power and yet still control it!” and then they reverted into silence. Jun looked over at Tenga by the door—and saw that the warrior was watching the two of them with an odd expression: half spiritual awe, half longing to be a part of whatever intimate experience the pupil and her master were sharing.
* * *
• • •
Jun found it difficult to concentrate during the ceremony. They were seated on soft cushions in a special roped-off enclosure in the Temple of Vharkash, a far larger space than the one in Sukatan, and as the Patriarch and his assistants made their offerings, and the gongs tinkled and the obat smoke billowed, he felt nothing of a religious nature but a slight softening of reality from breathing in clouds of the drug. He could not stop glancing sideways at Ketut, watching her almost obsessively to see if or when she would transform into the Goddess Dargan. In truth he felt more than a little apprehensive, and for good reason: the last time she had transformed, she had tried to kill him, and had very nearly forced another man to impale himself on his own kris.
He tried to take comfort in the words she had said to him before they filed into the temple and taken their places in the enclosure beside the scared spac
e. “Don’t fret so much, richboy, I’m not going to hurt you tonight. Semar has been teaching me to understand the Goddess more fully and to guide her actions when she is inside me. Besides, that was then, and then I felt such anger and rage against you and your kind . . .”
“And now? Now we are battle comrades, the best of friends?”
“Semar has taught me that your kind are my kind.”
“What, that we are both Tamani?”
“No . . . yes . . . well, something like that. Anyway, you will be safe tonight.”
“Why?”
“Mainly because now I don’t hate you quite so much.”
It was not much consolation. And when he saw the obat smoke and the lilting gong music working on her, and her small, skinny body beginning to shift and distort, when he saw her growing in stature, and smelled the meaty odors of entrails and ordure, he felt his body tense and a sense of almost uncontrollable panic began welling up in his lower belly.
The floor before the altar was filled with the men and women of Singarasam, devotees of Vharkash, all in trance, dancing for their God, slinking like Ghost Tigers, or strutting like young warriors, one man clearly inhabited by the spirit of a python. The Patriarch, he noticed, did not dance, but stood to the side of the open space next to Semar, both old men watching the ceremony with benevolent yet wary eyes.
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