Powder Burn (Burn with Sam Blackett #1)

by Chisnell, Mark

  Jortse acknowledged the sentiment with the merest nod.

  Detsen’s eyes flicked down to the paper in front of him. “You have called the Council together – your blood, your family, gives you that right. What have you to say to us?”

  “Before you lies the sword of the warrior Emperor Dali Shakabpu of Shibde. The legend says that it will be wielded again by the Seeker, who will free Shibde from its slavery, and I – Jortse Choedron, son of Jortense Choedron, exiled prince of Shibde – I am the Seeker.”

  “And you can, of course, prove this,” stated Detsen.

  “The sword is its own proof.”

  “I’m sure you feel that way, but you must understand that, after twelve hundred years, the Council will need a little more than your word for it.”

  “The sword is the proof,” repeated Jortse.

  Detsen eyed him across the table. “And I repeat, the sword on its own is not adequate. Is there not some evidence of its authenticity – where did you find it, what led you there ...?”

  “The sword is its own proof,” replied Jortse. “Strike me,” he added.

  A cold silence seeped into the huge cavern. Even the burning, sputtering torches seemed to be holding their breath. Detsen managed a smile, with all the wariness of a rat in a snake pit. “Violence is not our way,” he said, evenly. “You know that.”

  “It is at my own bidding. I’m sure the Buddha would make an exception in these circumstances,” replied Jortse.

  Trisong Detsen stood. “You say the Buddha would forgive me, but what will your mother say?”

  Jortse didn’t reply. He stepped forward, picked up the sword, drew it from the scabbard and offered it, flat on his open palms. Detsen leaned forward and gripped the hilt. Sam briefly, heart-stoppingly thought that she saw him tense, as if to simply thrust it into Jortse’s chest. Then Detsen picked the weapon up, and walked around the table, feeling the balance of the sword in his hands.

  “It is a terrible thing, violence,” said Detsen. “Have you ever seen it, Jortse Choedron? Close up, in the flesh, I mean. Not on your American cinema screens.”

  Jortse watched him approach, moving into the open. “Strike me,” he said again.

  The two men were facing each other across the rough rock floor. But Detsen’s eyes were locked on the weapon in his hand; the knurled grip and intricate silver decorative work on the pommel and crossguard. He ran his eyes down the straight blade, over its immaculate polish and edge, rolling it in the light, the fire flickering off the steel.

  “I saw them cut down my people,” said Detsen. “Demagistani soldiers, with their terrible modern weapons, firing into unarmed crowds. Crowds that had formed to keep them from the Hall of the Mountains long enough for the king to escape. A crowd whose only weapon was its size and bulk, its sheer physical presence, whose only means of resistance was to give up life.” He looked up at Jortse. “I watched their blood pool in the gutters.”

  “Strike me,” ground out Jortse.

  Sam had no idea what Jortse’s plan was, just a sudden intuition that it was a terrible mistake. He was going to be cut down where he stood. She could imagine what was running through Detsen’s mind ... this one act of violence, to save many – the death of the usurper, the carrier of violence ... Then there was a clatter as the sword hit the floor and the president of the Council stepped back, shaking his open palms and stifling a cry.

  “It’s hot, it burned me ...”

  Jortse stepped forward and picked up the sword in his right hand. He laid the blade on his left palm and looked down the three feet of bright steel, the point leveled at Detsen. “The sword gives up its power only to the Seeker, just as the legend foretold.”

  Detsen stood his ground, and no one else moved or spoke. Eventually, Jortse rolled the sword tip downwards onto the floor, and rested a hand on each side of the crossguard. The silence held until Detsen returned to his seat at the head of the Council.

  “And what, precisely, do you want to do with this power, Jortse Choedron?” he said, finally.

  “I want the freedom of my people. And I want the throne stolen from my father.”

  “The throne was not stolen from your father. It was shown that Ugyen was the firstborn of the twins, the rightful heir.”

  “‘No, you decided that, Trisong Detsen, you alone. The Council took powers that it didn’t have and decided the succession. My grandfather had never spoken of the firstborn –”

  “Others were there at the birth, their evidence was heard. The matter was decided.”

  “My grandfather forbad anyone else to speak of it – his wishes were in his will, and it was never read. You took the matter into your own hands, and my father was forced to flee to India. Only Yigme Dorge stood by him, and his son Tashi died on the dangerous path taken to stand before you today.” Jortse hesitated for a moment to give his next words more effect. “And even if what you say were true, on Ugyen’s death I am the next in line for the throne. He has no heir. Give me the power that will one day be mine regardless, but give it to me now, before it is too late, before all that is Shibde is swept away.”

  There were murmurs all along the table. Sam could sense movement in the shadows. There were guards, and they were getting edgy. Jortse still had the sword –but Detsen just leaned back, clasped his hands on the table in front of him. “You have done very well from your exile, Jortse Choedron. Private American education, Ivy League university, a Wall Street job ... what I don’t understand is why you left all that to come back here, to a place where you are a stranger, that you have not the slightest understanding of ...”

  “You joke with me, Trisong Detsen. I know more about Shibde than anyone here – who found the sword?”

  “Then what is the price of a yak liver in the Tsaparang market?”

  “That is not relevant –”

  “It is to the people that have to buy this offal to survive. Our people.”

  “Then I can tell you that it will be a great deal cheaper when I am king, when Demagistan has been run out of this land and peace and self-determination are returned to the people of Shibde. I’ve come back here because I’m sick and tired of watching a sick and tired old man refuse to stand up to the invader.”

  “And how will you force Demagistan from Shibde – with that sword? Whatever trick you have come up with to make it burn my hand, it won’t work against a division of Demagistan’s soldiers with automatic weapons, artillery and air support. They will slaughter you and anyone that stands with you – and then they will slaughter many more innocents as a warning to others.”

  “There will be a cost in freeing my land.” Jortse’s reply was clipped and taut, and not remotely defensive.

  “Your land?” The scorn poured into Detsen’s voice. He leaned forward. “You know nothing of our land, or you wouldn’t be here now stirring up trouble for a people who already have plenty enough to go around.”

  “No, for too long we have crouched and sniveled.” Jortse banged the tip of the sword against the floor. “It is time to fight back. We have fought before.” Now he shook the sword. “This comes from a time when Demagistan knelt at Shibde’s feet. I will use it until that time comes again.”

  “That was twelve hundred years ago,” replied Detsen. “Now, they are hundreds of millions strong and we are so few, so powerless. Listen to your own words, they are filled with your ego. It is only glory you seek, not the best for Shibde.”

  “How can you say that? They imprison and torture our people just for singing the wrong songs, for having photos of the king, for flying our flag – it has to stop.”

  “It is not our dharma to kill and make war,” replied Detsen. “Better that the wheels of time turn, and then Demagistan will be ground beneath them, like every other empire. It is just a matter of time.”

  “How much time?” Jortse shook his head in disbelief. “Would you have my people live a thousand years as Demagistan’s slaves, rather than fight? This is the kind of leadership I have come to expect
from you and Ugyen. For so many years I have watched as you have done nothing. If you had modernized the army, the country, the government – this ridiculous Council – when you had the chance, before Demagistan invaded, then this would never have happened. And even then, if you’d fought them when their grip was weak, you might have stopped this disaster. But no – and so in another ten or twenty years everything will be gone. There will only be Demagistani people, Demagistani buildings, Demagistani language and Demagistani thoughts in our land.”

  Detsen let the silence gather before he replied. “So tell us, then, Jortse Choedron, what would you do instead? How would you fight Demagistan’s armies, millions strong, with their modern weapons, tanks and aircraft? How would you lead our people against these professional soldiers?”

  “Committed guerrilla armies fighting for their own land have always proven stronger than invaders – just look at Afghanistan.”

  “You would wish the future of Shibde to look like Afghanistan?” Now it was Detsen’s turn to look incredulous. “And the mujahideen fight with Pakistani support, and in the beginning with American money and weapons. Where are your weapons going to come from, Jortse Choedron? Where is your secure base, on whose territory will you train, and rest and prepare? Is that what you have brought the CIA here for?” Detsen waved at Sam as he spoke. She felt Lens start out of his seat, but Pete put out a restraining, silencing hand.

  “I can only reveal these things when the time is right,” replied Jortse.

  Now Detsen stood, leaning forward on outstretched fingers. “You come here, before this Council, and you demand that we overthrow the legitimate ruler of our country and install in its place yourself, a hot-headed young man with no knowledge of the lives of the people of our country, who promises them only war, only bloodshed, pain and death – and you have no plan that you are prepared to share with us for how you are to conduct this war?”

  “I am the rightful ruler of Shibde, and the Council knows it.” Jortse stared down the line of impassive faces, ignoring Detsen, appealing to the others. “Today you have an opportunity to undo the wrongs of thirty-seven years ago. Today you have an opportunity to put the leadership of the country into the hands of a man who has the energy to lead it. Ugyen has no heir. There is no other successor. Whether it is now or on his death, I will be king of Shibde. I ask you to choose now – while there is still time to repel the Demagistan invader from our land. I am the Seeker, destiny has chosen me. You ask for details, you ask for plans – I give you leadership. I give you the power of Dali Shakabpu.” And with these final words Jortse swirled round, the sword sweeping over his head and down. It crashed into the torch stand behind him, slicing it – wood, steel frame and all – into two. The parts neatly separated and fell to the floor with a gush of flame and burning ash.

  The fire scattered across the floor had begun to burn out when Trisong Detsen finally spoke. “We have heard, and seen, enough. The Council will discuss your claims. Dismissed.”

  Jortse turned on his heel, slid the sword back into the scabbard, flipped it onto his shoulder and walked back through the hall. Sam glanced at Pete. “What do you think?” she whispered.

  “Great performance, but he’s not got a bat’s chance in hell of getting their support. How do you think he did that trick with the sword?”

  “No idea,” said Sam.

  Dromo Gache glided past and led them to a gloomy, badly lit antechamber. Angry, red-faced Buddhas glared down at them from the walls. Dromo waved them to the bench seats in silence, then returned to the Council. Six of the black-cloaked guards took up positions a few yards away. Sam, Pete and Lens sat, while Jortse stood near the door watching the deliberations in the distance. No one seemed in a hurry to try to take the sword away from him. He’s made his play, she thought, and it has worked.

  “So if all you needed from the Council was their blessing to lead an armed rebellion, why did you demand the crown?” asked Lens.

  “I thought he was dead, but as soon as I saw that Detsen still led the Council, I knew that I would be refused anything I asked. Since it made no difference, I decided I might as well say what I really felt.” Jortse straightened and turned as he spoke, meeting their gaze defiantly.

  “Who’s Detsen?” asked Sam.

  “The power behind the throne, Cardinal de Richelieu to King Ugyen’s Louis XIII. The man my father had always blamed for our exile.”

  “I don’t think he’s going to help you,” said Pete.

  For just a moment, Jortse smiled. “No, but I’ve been thinking, if there are fighters to be found in this country, they’re amongst the real people, the nomads, the yak herders. Most of them are barely Buddhist, they’re still wedded to even older ways – the animist religions of the high plains. I doubt they really think much of this Buddhist pacifism that Detsen preaches. They’re just following the leadership out of a traditional devotion to the king. I can change that. They’re the perfect guerrilla fighters. They know the country. They can live off the land. And I can reach them without having to risk Demagistan’s network of surveillance in the towns. But not on this trip, I need to get out and plan it properly.”

  “We’re with you,” said Sam.

  “You are?” said Jortse.

  She nodded. “All of us.”

  “Even him?” Jortse waved dismissively at Lens as he spoke.

  “Even him, he doesn’t want to stay here on his own, and Pete and I felt you had a cause worth fighting for.”

  “Good. When things are further along, we will have need of someone who can tell our side of the story, make our case in the global court of public opinion.”

  “I should be glad to help when that time comes,” said Sam.

  Jortse nodded. “When I make my move, stay close. I don’t want to hurt these people.”

  “I thought they were all pacifists or whatever, how are they going to stop us?” asked Pete.

  “The Royal Guard aren’t from Shibde, they’re Nepalese mercenaries,” said Jortse.

  “Now he freakin’ tells us,” muttered Lens.

  Chapter 24

  It was only ten minutes later when Gache approached them. “The Council has made a decision. Come,” he said. They followed him back to the center of the great hall, where Shibde’s Council of wise men still sat grim and silent behind the massive table. This time Gache’s introduction was wordless – a quick, informal bow as he moved to his seat. And this time the protective ring of monks wasn’t hidden in the shadows beyond the flickering torches. They were standing just behind the Council, hands clasped in front of them. Sam realized that Jortse wasn’t the only one expecting trouble. There was no sign of weapons, but they could be carrying anything under those cloaks. Sam didn’t sit down, she figured they’d need to move quickly.

  It was Trisong Detsen that spoke. “We have made a decision. I will not waste your time any further. The Council cannot support your request. Ugyen is the rightful king of Shibde, and will remain so until his death, when the question of succession will be considered by the Council. We have decided not to allow you to return into exile, you will stay here under house arrest. These people” – again he waved at Sam as he said this – “will also remain here while we make further investigations. We do not wish to release anyone that knows even the approximate position of the Council chambers.” The words echoed flatly through the cavern and dissipated into the silence.

  Sam swallowed hard. Lens swore under his breath.

  “So, Detsen – as to the father, so to the son – you would rob me of my rightful inheritance too?” said Jortse.

  “It is not your rightful inheritance,” replied Detsen. “The succession is always a matter for the Council. If you knew a little more about Shibde, if you knew anything about Shibde, you would know this. Now, hand over the sword. It is the property of the king.”

  Jortse folded his arms across his chest and straightened his tall frame. “I found the sword. I am the Seeker. It cannot be relinquished until Shibde is free.”<
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  “It was the emperor’s sword, Jortse Choedron, therefore it is now the king’s,” responded Detsen.

  Sam heard movement behind and glanced over her shoulder. There were more guards – menacing, hooded shadows in the flickering light. If Jortse was wrong and they couldn’t escape, she could be forced to spend the rest of her life here. “They’re getting round behind us,” she hissed.

  “I know,” said Jortse. “Follow me.” He spun round as he spoke, the sword already, almost magically, in his hands. The Council scattered, but Jortse was running for the door. Sam, Pete and Lens followed. She grabbed up a flaming wooden torch from its stand as she ran past. The trap had not quite been sprung. Jortse was already amongst the men that had approached from the back of the cavern. They had been slow to draw the weapons she was sure they carried under the cloaks, and they scattered as the glittering blade sliced through the air. Sam swung the torch in its wake. Jortse reached the door just in time, hurling himself at it feet first as it shut in his face. It slammed back open.

  “Shut it behind us, Sam!” yelled Jortse, as he tumbled through the doorway and followed up on the dazed guard who had been trying to close it.

  Sam swiveled on her heels as Lens and Pete dived through; she slammed the door shut, wrenching the dead bolt into place. Bodies thudded uselessly into the other side.

  “They were expecting me to try for Detsen, and they’ve pulled everyone into the hall to protect him and the Council. So, as this is the only way in or out, I think we’ve bought ourselves some time. Come on, bring the torch,” urged Jortse, “we should get our bags.”

  Sam hurried past the motionless body on the floor, hoping he was just unconscious. She glanced at Pete, jogging beside her. “Where the hell did you get that?” she asked.

  He lifted the rifle. “One of those guys dropped it, I thought it was dangerous to just leave it lying around.”

  “You have any idea how to use it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Swap,” she said, handing him the torch.