Slaves of the Mastery

by William Nicholson

  The causeway was jammed with people fleeing the burning city. It took Mumpo some time to force a way for himself and his companions. The crush was made far worse by the looting. People were dragging with them bundles of silverware, fine dresses, rolls of bedding, even an iron bed itself. Where the way forward was blocked, the people pushing from behind clambered over those who had stopped, and the unfortunates beneath were trampled to death. Many were running along the causeway’s low wooden balustrades, but the timber rails weren’t built to take such weight, and collapsed in several places at once. The people on them tumbled into the cold waters of the lake, where those who couldn’t swim thrashed and screamed and were ignored, until the screaming stopped.

  On the hillside above the monkey wagons, Creoth was driving his herd of cows, riding in a horse-drawn wagon that carried the day’s supply of milk. Hanno Hath had called him, and now he was coming to join him on his promised escape, bringing with him his cows, his wagon, and the four big churns of milk. The first he knew of the battle was the agitated lowing of his cows. Then he saw fires burning in the High Domain. Then he heard Hanno calling to him.

  ‘Creoth! The milk!’

  Creoth didn’t understand what Hanno meant. Then he saw the people in one of the monkey wagons all crowded to the far end of the cage, and the fire crackling away at the near end, and the Loomus guards dancing and laughing.

  ‘On the fire!’ Hanno was shouting. ‘Throw the milk on the fire!’

  ‘Beard of my ancestors!’ muttered Creoth to himself. He pulled the wagon to a halt, jumped down, and ran round to the milk churns on the back. The churns were heavy, but he was a big man, and with both arms clasped tight round the churn’s middle, he could carry one. Staggering under the weight, watched by the laughing guards, he heaved it to the cage, and tipped it over. The rich creamy milk gushed out of the churn to one side, and spread in a white puddle over the road. The guards doubled over and smacked their legs and howled with laughter. The people in the cage, crying now, felt the fire crawl towards their feet.

  Creoth slapped himself on the face.

  ‘I’m a disgrace to my ancestors!’ he wept. ‘Why am I so useless?’

  ‘Help me here.’

  Hanno was already back by the wagon, struggling with a second churn, but it was too heavy for him to lift. Creoth hurried to his side, and wrapped his strong arms round the churn. Hanno went with him to guide it as it tipped. This time the milk poured onto the burning wood, and with a hissing and a bubbling, doused part of the flames. The rich smoky smell of burned milk filled the air.

  The guards stopped laughing and goggled in surprise. Then with a bellow of anger, one pulled out his sword and turned on Creoth, while the other took up a bundle of dry wood to re-kindle the fire. Up went the blade, as Creoth cowered by the overturned churn, and down it came, slashing the air. Creoth had rolled under the cage. Frustrated, the guard ran round, swiping and poking with his sword, while Creoth kept out of his reach between the wheels.

  Mist saw the second guard carrying the firewood towards the cage, and understood what it meant. The guard was some way away, but the cat was angry. All morning these two fools had laughed at him because he couldn’t fly. Now they laughed at people being burned to death. Goaded beyond endurance, Mist coiled his body, and sprang. Claws outstretched, he hurtled through the air, further than he had ever sprung before, faster, higher, to land full on the guard’s face. Tearing at his cheeks and neck with his claws, he forced the guard to stumble and release his firewood.

  ‘Yow!’ shrieked the guard, pulling the cat from his face. Mist dropped to the ground, and looked back in surprise. How had he jumped that far? Had he jumped?

  Did I fly? Was that flying?

  A scream came from the guard with the sword. He had been so absorbed in catching Creoth that he never heard the arrival of the others.

  Mumpo struck the first guard a single deadly blow before he even knew he was under attack. The second guard, hearing the dying scream of his companion, looked round in time to see Mumpo’s flying fist: and it was all over.

  Hanno was already tearing the key from the dead man’s belt. Bowman was by the cage, reaching through the bars to Pinto. Ira Hath had found Kestrel, and folded her in her arms.

  The cage door swung open, and the terrified prisoners came tumbling out. Pinto waited until all the others were out before leaving herself, and letting herself be gathered up into her father’s arms. Then for a few short precious moments she and Hanno and Ira and Kestrel and Bowman and Mumpo all pressed close against each other, and none of them spoke.

  Then Hanno said,

  ‘Time to go.’

  Zohon was now in undisputed control of the High Domain; if it could be called control, to rule a city that was given over to smashing, looting and burning. But Zohon was not concerned to save the beauties of the Mastery. It gave him grim satisfaction to see the elegant domed structures burn and fall. Let the High Domain and all its glory die. Let it return to the barren dirt from which it had been raised. Let its people slaughter each other. He, Zohon, the master of the Mastery, the conqueror of the world, had a greater goal in view. At the head of his victorious Johjan Guards he would march in triumph back to Obagang, and there declare himself the new supreme ruler: the Zohonna of Gang. He needed only to find his beloved, his true bride, the one who would legitimise his seizure of power and bring joy to his proud heart: the Radiance of the East, the Pearl of Perfection, and the Delight of a Million Eyes.

  But she was nowhere to be found. His men had searched the state rooms. They had found the body of Ortiz, but not the Johdila.

  ‘Someone has taken her!’ Zohon raged in his fury. ‘Someone is hiding her from me!’

  He had the miserable Grand Vizier dragged before him, along with the royal augur. Ozoh the Wise was incoherent with terror.

  ‘Where is she?’ yelled Zohon. ‘I will be told!’

  ‘I don’t know,’ wailed Barzan.

  Zohon took out his hammer, and reversing it to present the sharp steel blade, he slashed the front of Barzan’s tunic. Barzan screamed. The blade had cut through fabric and skin to leave a streak of welling blood.

  ‘Must I cut deeper?’

  ‘I swear, I swear I don’t know,’ blubbered Barzan in pain and fear.

  Zohon looked on him with disgust.

  ‘Have you no manliness? Stand up straight.’

  Barzan tried to stiffen his cringing back.

  ‘To think a worm like you believed he could oppose me! Can’t you recognise true greatness when you see it?’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ stammered the Grand Vizier.

  ‘You know now. Kneel!’

  The hammer’s sharp blade hovered close. Barzan hastened to kneel.

  ‘I am the Zohonna, Lord of a Million Souls!’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Yes, what?’

  ‘Yes, mightiness.’

  Zohon turned to the augur.

  ‘Ozoh the Wise,’ he said, sneering. ‘If you’re so wise, you’ll tell me where the Johdila is.’

  ‘My wisdom is fled, mightiness,’ wept Ozoh. ‘I have lost my egg. I know nothing.’

  ‘Take down your trousers!’

  Ozoh hurriedly pulled down his baggy pantaloons, letting them drop to his ankles. His bottom and his upper thighs were revealed: naked, pale, unadorned.

  ‘Paint!’ said Zohon. ‘Just paint, after all! I knew it! Boil him.’

  Poor Ozoh was dragged away, weeping with fear. Zohon turned to his attendant officers.

  ‘Here is my command to the people of the Mastery,’ he announced. ‘They are to bring me the Johdila Sirharasi by dawn tomorrow, or they will die. Every last one of them! Every man, woman, and child! Not one living creature will be left alive, if the Johdila is not restored to my strong and loving arms!’

  23

  Sisi turns her cheek

  Twilight was gathering as Hanno Hath led his followers up the hillside and out of the Mastery. The terrible events of th
e day had proved Ira Hath to be a prophetess with the true gift, and this had brought some more to join their group. But most stayed behind, to loot, to take over the abandoned farms, to work the already-cultivated land. For as they said, where were the wanderers going? No one knew. How would they be protected? What would they eat? How would they keep warm when winter came?

  ‘Is it far?’ they asked the prophetess. ‘This homeland of yours?’

  ‘Far enough,’ she said. ‘But not too far.’

  How else could she answer? She had only seen it in a dream. Where it was or how far away she had no idea.

  So in the column that now trudged up the stone road as the day drew to a close there were just thirty of the Manth people, five cows, one horse-drawn wagon, and a grey cat.

  Some of the Manth people who were staying behind gathered to wish them well on their way. But it was a subdued leave-taking. The ones who were staying were exhausted, afraid, and full of doubts of their own. The ones who were leaving knew they were only carrying enough provisions for the first few days, and after that they must find food on the road or starve. They would also have to forage for firewood, and the means to shelter themselves at night, for winter was approaching fast. So altogether it was a band sustained by faith and hope, more than any sensible expectation of survival, that waved good-bye and wound its way up the hillside into the trees.

  Hanno Hath led the way, with his wife at his side. They proceeded on foot, as they had done on the slave march. Behind them came their children, Bowman, Kestrel, and Pinto. Mumpo took upon himself the role of guardian, and together with the two eldest Mimilith boys roamed back and forth along the straggling column watching out for danger. Scooch had joined them, along with the Mimilith family, and fat Mrs Chirish; and Creoth, driving his cows, who were lowing pitifully, because it was past their time to be milked.

  They made their way through the trees, past the stone pillars that marked the borders of the Mastery, and out onto the bleak uplands. Here, Ira Hath stood still a moment, until she felt on one cheek the far-off warmth that only she could feel. Guided by this faint but sure sense of direction, they turned north. Hanno’s intention was to put as much distance as possible between them and the Mastery before they stopped for the night. But darkness was falling, and his companions were weary after the terrors of the long day, and so, sooner than he thought wise, he was obliged to call a halt.

  They lit a fire with some of their small store of wood, and all gathered round it. Creoth milked his cows at last, apologising to each one as he emptied the straining udder. ‘Better you carry it than me.’ Then there was fresh milk for all, and bread taken from the stores. No one would go hungry that first night. The days to come were another matter.

  Pinto curled up close in her father’s arms and whispered to him,

  ‘What happens when we’ve no more food?’

  ‘It falls from the sky.’

  ‘No, really.’

  ‘I only mean to say,’ he explained, kissing her bony cheek, ‘that if we’re going the right way, somehow we’ll get there.’

  ‘I do love you, pa.’

  ‘And at least we’re together again.’

  Bowman hardly spoke at all. He had been virtually silent since the end of the mind duel. He seemed greatly weakened, and almost ashamed. For company, he chose only the grey cat that went with him everywhere. He sat apart from the rest, with the cat curled up on his lap, and together they stared in silence at nothing.

  His mother partly understood, and knew there was nothing she could say to undo what had been done. Instead of trying to console or reassure him, she reminded him that his help was still needed.

  ‘There are hard days ahead,’ she said. ‘We need your power. Whatever it costs you.’

  This was just what Bowman wanted: to be allowed to pay the price for what he had done.

  ‘I’m not afraid,’ he said. ‘I’ll face any danger. I don’t care what the risk. I’ll do anything.’

  ‘You’ll do what you’re called upon to do,’ said his mother gently.

  This at last comforted Bowman, this hope that his battle was not yet over, and so he had not yet lost. He allowed his mother to draw him in to the wish-huddle before they slept. There, their arms tight around each other, their heads touching, Pinto the youngest wished first.

  ‘I wish for us family always to be together.’

  Then Kestrel wished the same.

  ‘I wish for us family always to be together.’

  Bowman felt the familiar warmth of the others pressing against him, and even though he didn’t believe it would be possible, he wished the same.

  ‘I wish for us family always to be together.’

  Ira Hath said softly,

  ‘I wish for strength.’

  Hanno Hath said,

  ‘I wish for all my dear ones to be safe and well for ever.’

  Mumpo kept watch while the others slept. It was a dark night, with low cloud overhead blotting out the stars. As the flames of the fire flickered and died into glowing embers, he found he could see almost nothing; so he closed his eyes and did his guard duty by sound alone. Sitting still, feeling the ache of his wounds throb softly in his flank and in his leg, he allowed his thoughts to turn to Kestrel. She looked at him differently now, he was sure of it: with gratitude, and better still, with respect. There had been no time to talk to her; nor would it have been right. There would be time later, when their journey was done. For now, his job was simple: he must protect her, and keep her from harm. He must protect all these good people he loved. The Mastery had taught him that he was strong, that if he chose he could fight and he could kill. He still found this surprising, and regarded his ability as something accidental, unearned, even a little frightening. But he was proud to know he too had a part to play, and that Kestrel needed him.

  So he sat quietly and listened to the noises of the night. Somewhere nearby a stream trickled over a stony bed, its soft murmur blending with the fading hiss of the fire. From time to time a night bird passed overhead, its wings barely moving, a quiet sigh in the air. Some small unseen creature scratched at the earth by his feet: scree-scree-screek, scree-scree-screek. And all the time, beneath the other sounds, there was the steady drumbeat, slow and muffled, of his own heart.

  Wind gusted across his face. He opened his eyes, and found the clouds were moving overhead, rolling away to the west. Stars began to appear, and a thumbnail moon. He looked for the familiar constellations, the Axe, with its long handle, the Crown, with its three points.

  ‘Are you awake, Mumpo?’

  He started. It was Pinto.

  ‘Pinto! Why aren’t you asleep?’

  ‘I can’t sleep.’

  ‘You have to sleep. We’ll be walking all day tomorrow.’

  ‘So will you. And you’re wounded.’

  ‘I’m all right. I’m strong.’

  ‘Well, so am I.’

  He looked at her fondly, and saw how she was shivering.

  ‘I’ll make up the fire.’

  He stirred the embers together, drawing in the unburned ends of logs, and the fire flickered back to life. In its gently-spreading glow, the others returned to his view, lying asleep in tangled heaps, pressed together for warmth. Mumpo’s eyes sought out Kestrel, and found her curled up between her brother and her mother, one hand folded in Bowman’s sleeping hand.

  ‘Do you still love her, Mumpo?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said simply.

  ‘What if she were to die?’

  He looked at Pinto, shocked. ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘No, but what if?’

  ‘I don’t want to think about it.’

  ‘You’d forget her and start loving someone else. That’s what people do.’

  ‘Well, nobody’s going to die.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Mumpo. Everyone’s going to die.’

  ‘Not for a long time.’

  ‘Kess’ll die before me, because she’s older than me. Then there’ll just be me. You ca
n love me when you’re old.’

  ‘All right,’ said Mumpo, touched by her fierce loyalty. ‘I’ll love you when I’m old.’

  For a few moments they sat in silence and watched the caverns forming in the fire. Then Mumpo’s sharp ears caught a different sound, more regular than the pop and crackle of the burning wood. It was approaching footsteps.

  He leaped to his feet, and drew his sword.

  ‘Stay here!’ he commanded Pinto.

  As she shrank back against her sleeping parents, Mumpo loped away silently into the darkness. Pinto too could now hear the footsteps, but a sudden gush of bright flame from the fire made the night around impenetrable. She heard the footsteps stop. Then came the indistinct sound of voices: women’s voices. Then Mumpo was returning to the ring of orange light, and with him came two women, one fat and one thin. They were shaking with cold, and looked badly frightened. Mumpo led them up to the warmth of the fire. The fat one said,

  ‘There, my pet. Now my baby will be warm again.’

  The thin one said nothing at all. She just huddled up close to the fire and bowed her head.

  Mumpo whispered to Pinto.

  ‘See if you can find them something to eat.’

  Pinto nodded, and felt her way to a nearby wagon. She brought back two chunks of their precious store of bread. The fat woman took the bread without a word and gave a small piece to the thin woman. The thin woman held it for a moment, and then let it fall to the ground.

  ‘Don’t do that!’ said Pinto, dismayed. ‘We don’t have enough food to feed ourselves.’

  The thin woman frowned, and turned to look at Pinto. Then she looked down at the fragment of bread she had dropped. Slowly, she picked it up and reached it out to Pinto.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, her voice low and sad.

  ‘Oh, my precious.’ The fat lady gave a shuddery sob. ‘My precious must eat or she’ll die, and what will her Lunki do then?’