“The traditional way for a Lord of the Islands’ rule to end,” murmured Farhan.
“. . . and a new Lord of the Islands has taken his place. A young fellow from Taman—I believe you know him, Minister. I believe you traveled with him here from Yawa.”
Farhan was taken aback. “Are you sure of this, Chan?” he said.
“Yes, indeed, Minister. My uncle who sent me this news has himself been named Grand Vizier to the new King of Singarasam—who is one Prince Arjun Wukarta.”
A horrible thought was forming in Farhan’s mind. “What is . . . What is your uncle’s name, Major, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Xi Chan smiled happily at Farhan. “His name is Xi Gung,” he said. “He’s a man of some stature in Singarasam. I think you are acquainted with him, Minister. In fact, I’m sure you are. He particularly asked me to send you his warmest regards.”
“Enough chitchat,” snapped Katerina. “We have more important matters at hand. Tell me what you know of this new Lord of the Islands, Farhan.”
It took her Minister a moment to gather his thoughts. “Jun is young, handsome and athletic,” he said, and then added a little sourly, “but also spoiled, lazy and not terribly bright. By that I mean I think he would be rather easy to manipulate.”
“He sounds absolutely perfect,” said Katerina. “No wife or longtime lover?”
“No, there were two women on the ship with him but they had eyes only for each other. He has a brotherly kind of bond with the younger Tamani woman, nothing more.”
“Excellent! Well, your next task, Farhan, is to arrange the marriage.”
“Marriage?”
“Yes, marriage. We will seal an alliance between myself and the Lord of the Islands with a royal wedding. That should please the Singarasam mob. We offer the King of Singarasam control once again over the Gates of Stone—and a piece of all the wealth that flows into and out of the Laut Besar and, in return, I shall require from the Lord of the Islands cash, ships, men and protection from the vengeance of the Federation.”
Katerina’s tone was deliberately brisk and businesslike. There was no room now for sentimentality. “You’ll be my marriage broker, Farhan. You’ll work out the details. Get as much as you can from this good-looking simpleton. Best get to work on this right away.”
“As you command, Highness,” Farhan said. But he felt his eyes burn with tears and he turned away quickly to keep his composure. He had what he wanted, didn’t he? He was at Katerina’s side—he was her closest adviser and confidante, her friend. What more could he realistically expect from her? Love, whispered a tiny voice. Love is but a delusion, he told himself. And, as the door to the Round House closed behind him, he roughly cuffed the tears from his cheeks, straightened his spine and went off to do his duty.
A few moments later, Katerina dismissed her advisers and, when they had gone, she turned once again to stare out of the cracked window. It was done. She had achieved all that she had set out to do. And soon, very soon, when she was married to this easily manipulated Taman princeling, she would be joint ruler of the whole of the Laut Besar. The first stage of her plan was almost complete. She wondered, idly, if this handsome new Lord of the Islands sometimes enjoyed a pipe of obat before he slept. That would be useful. If not, there would be other methods of achieving her ultimate goal . . .
On the roof of the Red Fort, a mile away, she could see that someone was hauling a flag up the pole. As the wind caught the material, and spread it wide, she saw that it was a black flag with a huge white bear, roaring red-mouthed from the center of the dark field—her own flag, designed by her, now planted by her own men, flying over the city she had taken with her own two hands. She felt a wild soaring of her spirits, a fierce joy greater than any she had ever felt before. What would her dead father, the Emperor of Khev, have to say about her now? Would he still sneer at her sex? Maybe. But she no longer cared.
She had marched, she had fought, she had conquered—as well, perhaps even better, than any man. And the proof of it was right outside this big, half-broken window.
For the Gates of Stone were finally hers.
Photo by James Clarke
Angus Macallan is a pseudonym for Angus Donald, a British fiction writer and former journalist who is now based just outside London. He was born in China and lived, worked and studied in Asia for much of his early adult life. He was awarded a master’s degree with honors in social anthropology by the University of Edinburgh, partly based on his fieldwork in Indonesia, which led to a dissertation: “Magic, Sorcery and Society.” He also worked as a journalist in Hong Kong, India, Pakistan and Afghanistan. The author can be reached via e-mail at [email protected].
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Gates of Stone Page 52